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PAIiKSB    «&    WAT©0>T,»    S2£:«II^?^.    ISO.  ©, 


/■^v  v«^^-> 


THE 


NATIONAL 


FIFTH    KEADEE: 


CONTAINING 

A    CO!    _^TE    AND    PRACTICAL     TREATISE     ON    ELOCUTION; 

SELECT  AND    CLASSIFIED   EXERCISES   IN    READING    AND 

declamation;    WITH    BIOGRAPHICAL    sketches, 

AND   COPIO  JS  NOTES  :   ADAPTED  TO   THE   USE 

OF    STUDENTS    IN    LITERATURE. 


By   KICHAKD    GKEENE    PAEKEE 

AXD 

J.    MADISON    WATSON. 


A.   S.  BARNES    &   COMPANY, 
NEW  YORK  AND  CHICAGO. 

1872, 


LIBRARY 

UNJVERSlTY  OF 
CAllfOtNIA 


^HJE    jMyVTIONyVI,    J3ef;IE£     Of    ^Ey\DE^g. 

COMPLETE  IN  TWO  INDEPENDENT  PARTS. 


I. 

THE  NATIONAL  READERS. 

By   PARKER   &  WATSON. 

No.   1. — National  Primer, 66pp>,  ft  mo. 

No.  2. — National  First  Reader,     .    .  ?28pp.,  ttmo. 

No.  3. — National  Second  Reader,    .  221pp.,  femo. 

No.  4. — National  Third  Reader,  .     .  2ss pp.,  f2mo. 

No.  S. — National  Fourth  Reader,     .  1.32 pp.,  i2mo. 

No.  6. — National  Fifth  Reader,    .    .  goo  pp.,  /2mo. 

II. 

THE  INDEPENDENT  READERS. 

By  J.    MADISON    WATSON. 

The  Independent  First  Reader,  .  .  so  pp.,  ?6mo. 
The  Independent  Second  Reader,,  too  pp.,  femo. 
The  Independent  Third  Reader,  .  210 pjj.,  ?o>no. 
The  Independent  Fourth  Reader,  .  201  pp.,  72»w. 
The  Independent  Fifth  Reader,  .  .  ss6 pp.,  /2mo. 
The  National  Fifth  Reader, ....  ceo  pp.,  r&mo, 

III. 

NATIONAL  SPELLING  BOOKS. 

By   J.    MADISON   WATSON. 

National  Klementary  Speller,  .  .  .  foopp.,  ?o»>o. 
National  Pronouncing  Speller,    .    .  /sspp.,  /2mo. 


***  The  Readers  constitute  two  complete  and  entirely  dis- 
tinct series,  either  of  which  are  adequate  to  every  want  of 
the  best  schools.     The  Spellers  may  accompany  either  Series. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S66,  by 

A .     S .     KARNES    &     CO., 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern  District 

of  New  York. 
N.  5th.  0JUQ 

PSYC 
■     LI' 


PREFACE. 


IN  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  we  have  a!«.ned  to  make  it  a  com« 
plete  and  sufficient  work  for  advanced  classes  in  Reading,  Elocution, 
and  English  and  American  Literature ;  to  furnish,  in  an  available  form, 
such  an  amount  of  biographical,  historical,  classical,  orthoepical,  and 

miscellaneous  matter,  as  to  render  it  highly  valuable  as  a  book  of  ref- 
erence ;  and  to  present  a  collection  of  pieces  so  rich,  varied,  perspicuous, 
and  attractive,  as  to  suit  all  classes  of  minds,  all  times,  and  all  occasions. 

Part  First,  in  two  chapters,  embraces  a  simple,  complete,  and  emi- 
nently practical  Treatise  on  Elocution.  The  principles  and  rules  are 
stated  in  a  succinct  and  lucid  manner,  and  followed  by  examples  and 
exercises  of  sufficient  number  and  extent  to  enable  the  student  thor- 
oughly to  master  each  point  as  presented,  as  well  as  to  acquire  a  dis- 
tinct comprehension  of  the  parts  as  a  ichqle. 

In  Part  Second,  the  Selections  for  Reading  and  Declamation  contain 
what  arc  regarded  as  the  choicest  gems  of  English  literature.  The 
works  of  many  authors,  ancient  and  modem,  have  been  consulted,  and 
more  than  a  hundred  standard  writers,  of  the  English  language,  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic,  have  been  laid  under  contribution  to  enable  the 
authors  to  present  a  collection,  rich  in  all  that  can  inform  the  understand- 
ing, improve  the  taste,  and  cultivate  the  heart,  and  which,  at  the  same 
time,  shall  furnish  every  variety  of  style  and  subject  to  exemplify  the 
principles  of  Rhetorical  delivery,  and  form  a  finished  reader  and  elocu- 
tionist. These  selections  have  been  arranged  in  a  regularly  graded 
course,  and  strictly  classified  with  regard  to  the  nature  of  the  subjects. 
Although  we  have  not  been  studious  of  novelty,  presenting  only  what 
we  regarded  as  suitable,  intrinsically  excellent,  and  most  truly  indica- 
ting the  mode  and  range  of  thought  of  the  writer,  it  will  be  seen  that 
a  large  proportion  of  this  collection  is  composed  of  pieces  to  be  found 
in  no  siniilar  work. 

Much  care  and  labor  have  been  devoted  to  the  orthoepical  department. 
The  pronunciation  of  all  words  liable  to  be  mispronounced  is  indicated 
once  in  each  paragraph,  or  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  where  they  occur. 
With  respect  to  the  words  about  the  pronunciation  of  which  orthoe- 
pists  differ,  we  have  adopted  the  most  recent  and  r.  lial  le  authority. 

Classical  and  historical  allusions,  so  common  among  the  best  writers, 
have  in  all  cases  been  explained ;  and,  if  the  authors  have  not  been  de- 

907 


jy  P  It  E  F  A  C  E . 

ceived,  every  aid  has  been  given  in  the  notes,  that  the  reader  may  readily 
comprehend  the  meaning  of  the  writer.  This  has  been  done  in  a  manner 
more  full  and  satisfactory  than  they  have  seen  in  any  other  collection, 
and  in  every  instance  at  the  bottom  of  the  page  where  the  difficulty 
occurs,  so  that  the  reader  may  not  be  subjected  to  the  trouble  of  con- 
sulting a  dictionary,  or  other  books  of  reference, — a  work  which,  in 
general,  if  done  at  all,  is  done  with  extreme  reluctance,  even  by  ad- 
vanced pupils. 

In  order  that  the  student  may  still  more  thoroughly  understand  what 
he  reads,  and  for  the  convenience  of  that  large  class  of  readers  who 
have  not  leisure  to  peruse  voluminous  memoirs  of  distinguished  men, 
and  yet  would  be  unwilling  to  forego  all  knowledge  of  them,  we  have 
introduced  concise  Biographical  Sketches  of  authors  from  whose  works 
extracts  have  been  selected,  and  of  jDersons  whose  names  occur  in  the 
Reading  Exercises.  These  sketches,  j>resenting  a  clear  and  distinct 
outline  of  the  life,  and  producing  a  clear  and  distinct  impression  of 
the  character,  furnish  an  amount  of  useful  and  available  information 
rarely  surpassed  by  memoirs  of  greater  extent  and  pretension.  Lists 
of  the  names  of  authors,  both  alphabetical  and  chronological,  have 
also  been  introduced,  thus  rendering  this  a  convenient  text  book  for 
students  in  English  and  Ameacan  Literature. 

The  improvements  made  in  the  revision  of  this  work  are  numerous 
and  important.  The  Treatise  on  Elocution  has  been  carefully  elabora- 
ted, involving  the  introduction  of  phonetic  exercises,  a  more  critical 
orthoepical  notation,  and  many  most  apt  and  interesting  examples  for 
illustration.  Several  of  these  examples  under  each  section  are  left  un- 
marked, thus  affording  students  opportunities  to  exercise  their  judg- 
ment, taste,  and  discrimination. 

The  collection  of  Reading  Lessons  has  been  greatly  improved  by 
judicious  omissions,  and  the  substitution  of  new  dialogues,  ballads, 
dramatic  lyrics,  and  other  rhetorical  pieces  that  are  more  varied  and 
inspiriting,  and  better  adapted  to  elocutionary  readings,  both  public 
and  private.  The  classification  of  these  lessons  is  more  systematic  and 
thorough  than  that  ever  before  attempted  in  any  corresponding  work. 
They  are  divided  into  formal  sections,  in  each  of  which  only  one  lead- 
ing subject  is  treated,  or  one  important  element  of  Elocution  rendered 
prominent.  All  practical  aids  are  furnished  by  more  copious  notes, 
new  indexes,  etc. 

New  Yobk,  June,  1S66. 


CONTENTS 


I.     ELOCUTION. 

I.     ORTHOEPY. 

PAGH 

Articulation 20 

Definitions 20 

Oral  Elements 22 

Cognates 24 

Alphabetic  Equivalents   24 

Oral  Elements  Combined  26 

Errors  in  Articulation 28 

Words 29 

Analysis  of  Words 29 

Rules  in  Articulation 32 

Exercises  in  Articulation 32 

Phonetic  Laughter , ,  .  35 

SYLL  A3IC  ATION 3G 

Definitions 36 

Formation  of  Syllables  36 

Rules  in  Syllabication  37 

Exercises  in  Syllabication 38 

Accent 40 

Definitions 40 

Exercises  in  Accent 40 

Words  Distinguished  by  Accent 41 

Accent  Changed  by  Contrast 42 

II      EXPRESSION. 

Emphasis 43 

Definitions   43 

Rules  in  Emphasis 44 

Exercises  in  Emphasis 44 

Slur 47 

Exercises  in  Slur 47 

Inflections , 50 

Definitions « 53 

Rules  in  Inflections. , 54 

Exercises  in  Inflections 5(j 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Modulation.  .■>. 58 

Pitch 53 

Forco   CO 

Quality C2 

Rate C5 

Monotone 67 

Exercises  in  Monotone 68 

Personation , 09 

Exercise  in  Personation TO 

Pauses , . TO 

Definitions TO 

Rules  for  Pauses Tl 

Suspensive  Quantity 72 

Exercises  in  Pauses T3 


II.     READINGS. 

I,    PIECES    IN    PROSE. 

Section  1 77 

1.    The  Months Henry  Ward  Beecher.    77 

Section  II 85 

3.    Never  Despair . . . 85 

5.     A  Golden  Coppersmith , 89 

0.    Noble  Revenge Thomas  tie  Quincey.    92 

7.     Beauty Ralph  Waldo  Emerson.    94 

Section  III 97 

9.     Maternal  Affection 100 

10.  The  Good  Wife Donald  G.  Mitchell.  101 

11.  Influence  of  Home Richard  Henry  Dana.  103 

13.  The  Widow  and  her  Son— Part  First Washington  Irving.  106 

14.  The  Widow  and  her  Son — Part  Second   110 

Section  IV 113 

15.  Biography  of  Jacob  Hays William  Cox.  113 

16.  Peter  Pounce  and  Parson  Adams .  .Henry  Fielding.  117 

19.     A  Curtain  Lecture  of  Mrs.  Caudle Douglas  Jerrold.  126 

Section  V 129 

22.  Broken  Hearts — Part  First Washington  Irving.  134 

23.  Broken  Hearts— Part  Second. 186 

27.     Selected  Extracts Henry  Ward  Beecher.  144 

Section  VI 147 

29.     The  Barbarities  of  War Thomas  Chalmers.  148 

3)5.     The  Siege  of  Leyden John  Lathrop  Motley.  157 

Section  VII 164 

37.  Christopher  Columbus Washington  Irving.  165 

38.  Return  of  Columbus William  11.  Preseott.  166 

39.  The  Revolutionary  Alarm George  Bancroft.  170 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Page 

Section  VIII 180 

44.  Wants — Part  First James  Kirke  Paulding.  180 

45.  Wants— Part  Second 183 

46.  Wants— Part  Third 184 

Section  IX 198 

51     Work Thomas  Carlyle.  199 

53.     Study Oreille  Dewey.  204 

Section  X 207 

.     54.    Letters D.  G.  Mitchell.  207 

55.  Select  Passages  in  Prose 210 

I.  Good  use  of  Memory.  II.  Injudicious  Haste  in  Study — 
Locke.  III.  Studies — Bacon.  IV.  Books— Channi/ig. 
V.  The  Bible— Hall. 

56.  Buying  Books Henry  Ward  Becchcr   214 

57.  Selected  Extracts Thomas  de  Quincey.  217 

Section  XI 221 

59.    The  Poet  and  his  Critics Washington  Allston.  224 

Section  XII 230 

61.     Ancient  and  Modern  Writers Charles  Sumner  280 

63.  Sound  and  Sense Robert  Chambers.  234 

64.  The  Power  of  Words E.P.  Whipple.  2:7 

66.  Parallel  between  Pope  and  Dryden Dr  Samuel  Johnson.  243 

Section  XIII , 247 

67.  Charge  against  Lord  Byron Francis  Jeffrey.  247 

70.     View  of  the  Coliseum Ortille  Dewey.  255 

Section  XIV 257 

72.  Scene  with  a  Panther Charles  Brockden  Broicn.  257 

73.  Count  Fathom's  Adventure— Part  First T  G.  Smollett.  261 

74.  Count  Fathom's  Adventure— Part  Second 263 

76.  The  Rattlesnake William  Gilmore  Simms.  270 

Section  XV 275 

77.  Irving  and  Macaulay — Part  First Wm.  M.  Thackeray.  275 

78.  Irving  and  Macaulay — Part  Second 277 

79.  The  Puritans Thomas  B.  Macaulay  280 

82.     Advantages  of  Adversity Edward  Everett.  284 

85.     Liberty Oreille  Deicey.  291 

Section  XVI 293 

87.     The  Death  of  Hamilton Eiiphalct  Kott.  294 

90.    Glory Dr.  Francis  Wayland.  299 

Section  XVII , .  304 

92.  The  Stolen  Rifle. Washington  Irving.  304 

93.  The  Tomahawk  submissive  to  Eloquence John  Neat    305 

96.     Marios  in  Prison Thomas  de  Quincey.  311 

Section  XIX ...  338 

107.  Daniel  Webster— Part  First Edward  Boerett.  331) 

108.  Daniel  Webster— Part  Second 341 

109.  From  a  Historical  Address Daniel  Webster   313 


viii  CONTENT! 

PAGB 

110.  Public  Virtue Henry  Clay.  843 

111.  Washington's  Sword  and  Franklin's  Staff J.  Q.  Adams.  343 

Section  XX 350 

113.     Paul  Flemming  Resolves Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  353 

115.  Life Horace  Binney  Wallace.  857 

Section  XXI 359- 

116.  Blennerhassett's  Temptation William  Wirt.  359 

Section  XXII 370 

119.  Character  of  Scott William  H.  Prescott.  370 

120.  Scene  from  Ivanhoe Sir  Walter  Scott.  373 

121.  Shakspeare Dr.  Johnson.  378 

Section  XXIV 400 

130.     Our  Honored  Dead Henry  Ward  Beecher.  403 

132.  Death  of  the  Old  Trapper— Part  First. ... .  .James  F.  Cooper.  406 

133.  Death  of  the  Old  Trapper— Part  Second 410 

Section  XXVI 436 

140.     Scenes  from  Pickwick — The  Dilemma Charles  Dickens.  436 

111.     Scenes  from  Pickwick — Speech  of  Sergeant  Buzfuz 440 

142.  Scenes  from  Pickwick — Sam  Weller  as  Witness 443 

143.  My  Oratorical  Experience Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  447 

Section  XXVII 450 

145.     Forest  Trees Washington  Irving.  452 

147.     Landscape  Beauty Francis  Jeffrey.  453 

149.    Elements  of  the  Swiss  Landscape George  B.  Cheevcr.  4C3 

Section  XXX  485 

157.     Character  of  Hamlet William  Hazlitt.  485 

Section   XXXI 505 

1G2.     Society  the  Great  Educator Orville  Dewey.  505 

163.  The  Schoolmaster  and  the  Conqueror Henry  Brougham.  507 

164.  Intellectual  Power James  H.  Hammond.  509 

105.     Moral  Progress  of  the  American  People Wm.  H  Seward.  511 

Section  XXXII 515 

163.    Hymns Henry  Ward  Beecher.  521 

Section  XXXIII 532 

173.     Select  Passages  in  Prose   535 

I.  Evidence  of  a  Creator — Tillotson.  II.  Nature  Pro- 
claims a  Deity — Chateaubriand.  III.  The  Unbeliever — 
Chalmers.     IV.  Blessings  of  Religious  Faith — Davy. 

Section  XXXIV 543 

175.     The  Poet H  B.  Wallace.  543 

177.     The  Influence  of  Poetry William  E.  Channing.  547 

Section  XXXVII 575 

183.     Milton — Part  First T/iomas  Babbington  Macaulay.  575 

187.     Milton— Part  Second 577 

Section  XXXVIII 583 

191.     The  Knocking  at  the  Gate,  in  Macbeth. .  Thomas  de  Quincey.  587 

Section  XXXIX 500 

103.     Omnipresence  nnd  Omniscience  of  God Addimn.  593 


CONTENTS.  ix 

IL    PIECES    IN    VERSE. 

PAGE 

Section  1 77 

2.     Hymn  to  the  Seasons James  Thomson.    81 

Section  II So 

4.     Now Charles  Mackay.    87 

Section  III 97 

8.     Sabbath  Morning James  Grahame.    97 

12.     An  Old  Haunt 105 

Section  V 129 

20.  Thanatopsis William  Cullen  Bryant.  129 

21.  Euthanasia Willis  Oaylord  Clark.  132 

24.  Lines  Relating  to  Curran's  Daughter Thomas  Moore  139 

25.  The  Bridge  of  Sighs Thomas  Hood.  140 

2G.     Select  Passages  in  Verse 142 

I.  Succession  of  Human  Beings.  II.  Death  of  the  Young 
and.  Fair.  III.  A  Lady  Drowned — Pioctor.  IV.  Life  of 
Man — Beaumont.  V.  Coronach — Scott.  VI.  Immortal- 
ity— R.  II  Dana. 

Section  VI .g 147 

28.     Fuller's  Bird'. Bryan  Walter  Proctor.  147 

30.     Bingcn  on  the  Rhine Mrs.  Caroline  Norton.  150 

32.     Battle  of  Waisaw Thomas  Campbell.  155 

34.  The  Happy  Warrior William  Wordsworth.  1G0 

35.  The  Conqueror's  Grave William  Cullen  Bryant.  102 

Section  VII 1G4 

36.  Destiny  of  America George  Berkeley.  164 

40.  The  Revolutionary  Rising Thomas  Buchanan  Read.  172 

41.  The  Settler Albert  B.  Street.  174 

42.  The  Star-Spangled  Banner Francis  Scott  Key.  177 

*3.  The  American  Flag Joseph  Rodman  Drake.  178 

(Section  VIII 180 

47.  The  Deserted  Village— Part  First Oliver  Goldsmith.  185 

48.  The  Deserted  Village— Part  Second 189 

49.  The  Deserted  Village— Part  Third 192 

Section  IX 198 

50.  The  Power  of  Art Charles  Sprague.  198 

52.     Address  to  the  Indolent James  Thompson.  202 

Section  XII 2:J0 

62.     Language Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  232 

65.     From  the  Essay  on  Criticism Alexander  Pope.  240 

Section  XIII 247 

68.  Lord  Byron Robert  Pollok.  249 

69.  Midnight— The  Coliseum Lord  Byron.  358 

71.     The  Dying  Gladiator Lord  Byron.  256 

Section  XIV .  .* 257 

75.    Darkness Lord  Byron.  2<.r 

r 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Section  XV 275 

80.  The  Pilgrim's  Vision Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  282 

81.  The  Roclv  of  the  Pilgrims George  P.  Morris.  283 

83.  The  Graves  of  the  Patriots James  Gates  Percival.  287 

84.  Antiquity  of  Freedom William  Cullen  Bryant.  289 

Section  XVI 293 

86.    The  Inquiry Charles  Mackay.  293 

88.  Pass  On,  Relentless  World George  Lunt.  295 

89.  The  World  for  Sale = Rev.  Ralph  Hoyt.  297 

91.    Passing  Away Rev.  John  Pierpont.  £01 

Section  XVII £04 

94.  The  Baron's  Last  Banquet Albert  G.  Greene.  307 

95.  Bernardo  del  Carpio Mrs.  Felicia  Hemans.  £09 

Section  XVIII 313 

97.  The  Annoyer Nathaniel  Parker  Willis.  313 

98.  The  Palm  and  the  Pine Bayard  Taylor.  £15 

99.  Fair  Ines ". Thomas  Hood.  317 

100.  Love Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  318 

101.  Lady  Clare Alfred  Ten  nyson.  321 

103.    Maud  Mailer John  Greenleaf  Whiltier.  324 

103.  The  Dream— Part  First Lord  Byron.  327 

104.  The  Dream— Part  Second SCO 

Section  XIX 338 

106.     A  Great  Man  Departed 308 

Section  XX 350 

112.     Procrastination Edward  Young.  350 

114.     Ode  to  Adversity , .  Thomas  Gray.  355 

Section  XXI 359 

118.    Parrhasius  and  the  Captive Nathaniel  I  arkcr  Willis.  365 

Section  XXIII 390 

125.  Select  Passages  in  Verse 890 

I.  Patriotism — Scott.  II.  Ambition-  -Byroi.  III.  Indepen- 
dence— Thomson.  IV.  The  Captive's  Dream — Mrs.  F. 
Hemans.  V.  William  Tell— Bryant.  VI.  Tell  of  Swit- 
zerland— Knowles.  VII.  How  Sleep  the  Brave — Collins. 
VIII.  The  Greeks  at  Thermopylae — Byron, 

126.  Greece  Lord  Byron.  394 

127.  Song  of  the  Greeks,  1822 Thomas  Campbell.  396 

128.  Marco  Bozzaris Fitz-Greene  Halleck.  398 

Section  XXIV 400 

129.  The  Closing  Year George  D.  Prentice.  400 

131.     The  Holy  Dead Mrs.  L.  H  Sigourney.  405 

134.  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church-Yard Thomas  Gray.  414 

Section  XXV 417 

135.  The  Phantom  Ship   417 

136.  The  Drowned  Mariner  Elisabeth  Oakes  Smith.  419 

137.  The  Direr SchiUer.  42>2 


CONTENTS.  Xi 

PAOH 

138.    Morte  d  Arthur Alfred  Tennyson.  426 

13!).    The  Skeleton  in  Armor II.  W.  Longfellow.  434 

Section  XXVII 450 

144.     A  Forest  Nook Albert  B.  Street.  430 

14G.    God's  First  Temples William  Cullen  Bryant.  455 

148.     Morning  Hymn  to  Mount  Blanc .Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge.  4C1 

150.  Alpine  Scenery Lord  Byron.  4GG 

Section  XXVIII 4G9 

151.  Select  Passages  in  Verse 4G9 

I.  Early  Da.\vnShelley.  II.  Daybreak— Longfellow.  III. 
Daybreak— Shelley.  IV.  Sunrise  in  South  America — 
Bowles.  V.  Dawn—  Willis.  VI.  Morning— Milton.  VII. 
Morning  on  the  Rhine— Bowles.  VIII.  Morning  Sounds 
— Seattle.     IX.  Early  Rising— Hurdis. 

152.  Select  Passages  in  Verse 473 

I.  Invocation  to  Night— J".  F.  HoUingt,  II.  A  Twilight 
Picture—  Whiiticr.  III.  Evening — Croly.  IV.  Night — 
Coleridge.  V.  Night  at  Corinth — Byron.  VI.  A  Sum- 
mer's Night — Bailey.  VII.  Night  and  Death — White. 
VIII.  Night— Shelley.  IX.  The  Moon— Charlotte  Smith. 
X.  The  Stars — Darwin. 
Section  XXIX : 470 

153.  Lochinvar's  Ride Sir  Walter  Scott.  4  "19 

154.  The  Kinir  of  Denmark's  Ride Mrs.  Caroline  Nort  m. 

155.  Sheridan's  Ride Thomas  Buchanan  Bead. 

156.  The  Ride  from  Ghent  to  Aix Robert  Browning.  4S3 

Section  XXXII 515 

1GG.    To  a  Skylark Percy  B.  Shelley.  515 

1G7.     Select  Passages  in  Verse 518 

I.  Voice  of  the  Wind — Henry  Taylor.     II.  Ministrations  of 

Nature — Coleridge.      III.    Moonlight — Shakspcare.      IV. 

The  Bells  of  Ostend — Bowles.     V.    Music — Shakspcare. 

VI.  Music — Shelley.     VII.  Pastoral  Music — Byron. 
1GD.     The  Passions William  Collins.  504 

170.  Alexander's  Feast John  Drydcn.  527 

Section  XXXIII 503 

171.  Hamlet's  Soliloquy William  Shakspcare.  532 

172.  Cato's  Soliloquy Joseph  Addison.  533 

174.     Intimations  of  Immortality William  Wordsworth.  537 

Section  XXXIV 543 

176.     To  the  Spirit  of  Poetry Francis  S.  Osgood.  514 

178.  To  the  Poet William  Cullen  Bryant.  549 

Section  XXXV 551 

179.  The  Bells Edgar  A.  Poe.  551 

ISO.     The  Cry  of  the  Human Elizabeth  B.  Browning.  555 

181.     The  Raven Edgar  A.  Poe.  558. 


xii  CONTENTS. 

PA<=1? 

Section  XXXVII 575 

188.  Satan's  Encounter  with  Death John  Milton.  580 

189.  The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul ...Alexander  Pope.  5S3 

Section  XXXIX 590 

192.     Messiah Alexander  Pope.  590 

194.    God JR.  Derzhavin  590 


III.    DIALOGUES. 

Section  17 .113 

17.  Conversations  after  Marriage— Part  First. . .  .R.  B.  Sheridan.  120 

18.  Conversations  after  Marriage — Part  Second 123 

Section  VI 147 

81.     Lochiel's  Warning Thomas  Campbell.  153 

Section  XI 221 

58.     Gil  Bias  and  the  Old  Archbishop Alain  Le  Sage.  221 

60.     The  Sensitive  Author R.  B.  Sheridan.  227 

'Section  XVIII 313 

105.     Scene  from  the  Lady  of  Lyons.  .Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton.  333 

Section  XXI 359 

117.     Roger  Ascham  and  Lady  Jane  Grey W.  S.  Landor.  302 

Section  XXII 370 

122.  Scene  from  King  Richard  III William  Shakspeare.  381 

123.  Norval John  Home.  884 

124.  Scene  from  Catiline George  Croly.  387 

Section  XXX 4S5 

158.  Scenes  from  Hamlet — Part  First William  Shakspeare.  487 

159.  Scenes  from  Hamlet — Part  Second 493 

1G0.     Scenes  from  Hamlet— Part  Third 498 

.  161.     Scenes  from  Hamlet — Part  Fourth 501 

Section  XXXVI 562 

182.  The  Saracen  Brothers— Part  First 502 

183.  The  Saracen  Brothers — Part  Second 565 

184.  Brutus  and  Titus  Nathaniel  Lee.  563 

85.     The  Phrensy  of  Orra Joanna  Baillie.  571 

Section  XXXVIII 583 

190.     Murder  of  King  Duncan WiUiam  Shakspeare.  583 


ALPHABETICAL    LIST    OF    AUTHORS.' 


Adams,  John  Q.,  348. 
Addison,  Joseph,  533,  593. 
Allston,  Washington,  224. 
Bacon,  Francis,  211. 
Bailey,  P.  J.,  476, 
Baillte,  Joanna,  571. 
Bancroft,  George,  170. 
Beattie,  James,  472. 
Beaumont,  Francis,  142. 
Beeciier,  H.  W.,  77,  144,  214,  403, 

521. 
Berkeley,  George,  164. 
Bowles,  W.  L.,  470,  472,  519. 
Brougham,  Henry,  507. 
Brown,  C.  B.  257. 
Browning,  Robert,  483. 
Browning,  Elizabeth  B.,  555. 
Byrant,  W.  C,  129,  162,  289,  392, 

455,  549. 
Byron,  G.  G.,  253, 256,  267,  327,  391, 

394,  466,  475,  520. 
Campbell,  Thomas,  153, 155,  396.^ 
Carlyle,  Thomas,  199. 
Chalmers,  Thomas,  148,  536. 
Chambers,  Robert,  234. 
Channing,  W.  E.,  212,  547. 
Chateaubriand,  F.  A.,  536. 
Cheever,  G.  B.,  463. 
Clark,  Willis  G.,  132. 
Clay,  Henry,  346. 
Coleridge,  Hartley,  475. 
Coleridge,  S.  T.,  318,  461,  518. 
Collins,  William,  393,  524. 
Cooper,  J.  Fenimore,  406. 
Cox,  William,  113. 


Croly,  George,  387,  474. 

Dana,  R.  H.,  103,  143. 

Darwin,  Erasmus,  478. 

Davy,  Humphrey,  537. 

De  Quincey,  T.,  92,  217,  311,  587. 

Derziiayin,  G.  R.,  596. 

Dewey,  Orville,  204,  255,  291,  505. 

Dickens,  Charles,  436. 

Drake,  J.  R.,  178. 

Dryden,  John,  527. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  94. 

Everett,  Edward,  284,  339. 

Fielding,  Henry,  117. 

Gibbon,  Edward,  95. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver,  185. 

Graiiame,  James,  97. 

Gray,  Thomas,  355,  414. 

Greene,  Albert  G.,  307. 

Hall,  Robert,  213. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene,  398. 

Hammond,  James  II.,  509. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  447, 

Hazlitt,  William,  485. 

Hemans,  Mrs.  F.,  309,  392. 

Rollings,  J.  F.,  473. 

Holmes,  O.  W.,  232,  282. 

Home,  John,  384. 

Hood,  Thomas,  140,  317. 

Hoyt,  Ralph,  297. 

Hume,  David,  237. 

Hurdis,  James,  473. 

Irving,  W.,  106,  134,  165,  304,  452. 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  247,  458. 

Jerrold,  Douglas,  126. 

Johnson,  Samuel,  243,  378. 


1  The  numbers  here  given  refer  to  Selections.    For  Biographical  Sketches, 


see  Chronological  List  ot  Authors. 


XIV 


ALPHABETICAL    LIST    OF    AUTHORS. 


Key,  Francis  Scott,  177. 

Knowles,  J.  S.,  392. 

Landor,  W.  S.,  362. 

Lee,  Nathaniel,  568. 

Le  Sage,  Alain,  221. 

Locke,  John,  210. 

Longfellow,  H.  W.,  352,  434,  469. 

Lunt,  George,  295. 

Lytton,  E.  Bulwer,  333. 

Macaulay,  T.  B.,  280,  575. 

Mackay,  Charles,  87,  293. 

Milton,  John,  471,  580. 

Mitchell,  D.  G.,  101,  207. 

Moore,  Thomas,  139. 

Morris,  George  P.,  283. 

Motley,  John  L.,  157. 

Neal,  John,  305. 

Norton,  Caroline  E.,  150,  480. 

Nott,  Eliphalet,  294. 

Osgood,  Francis  S.,  544. 

Paulding,  J.  K.,  180. 

Percival,  J.  G.,  287. 

Pierpont,  John,  301. 

Poe,  Edgar  A.,  551,  558. 

Pollock,  Robert,  249. 

Pope,  Alexander,  240,  583,  590. 

Prentice,  George  D„,  400. 

Prescott.  W.  II.,  166,  370. 

Proctor,  B.  W.,  142, 147. 

Read,  T.  Buchanan,  172,  482. 

Schiller,  J.  C.  F.  von,  422. 


Scott,  Walter,  143,  373,  390,  479. 
Seward,  William  H.,  511. 
Shakspeare,  We,  381,  487,  518, 

519,  532,  583. 
Shelley,  P.  B.,  469,  470,  477,  515, 

520. 
Sheridan,  R.  B.  120. 
Sigourney,  Mrs.,  405. 
Simms,  W.  G.  270. 
Smith,  Charlotte,  478. 
Smith,  Elizabeth  Oakes,  419. 
Smollett,  T.  G.,  261. 
Sprague,  Charles,  198. 
Street,  A.  B.,  174,  450. 
Sumner,  Charles,  230. 
Taylor,  Bayard,  315. 
Taylor,  Henry,  518. 
Tennyson,  Alfred,  321,  426. 
Thackeray,  William  M.,  275. 
Thomson,  James,  81,  202,  391. 
Tillotson,  JonN,  535. 
Wallace,  H.  B .,  357,  543. 
Wayland,  Francis,  299. 
Webster,  Daniel,  343. 
Whipple,  E.  P.,  237. 
White,  J.  Blanco,  477. 
Whittier,  John  G.,  324,  474. 
Willis,  N.  P.,  313,  365,  471. 
Wirt,  William,  359. 
Wordsworth,  William,  160,  537, 
Young,  Edward,  350. 


CHRONOLOGICAL     LIST     OF     AUTHORS.' 


Bacon,  Francis 

Siiakspeare,  William 

Beaumont,  Francis 

Milton,  John 

Tillotson,  John 

Dryden,  John 

Locke,  John 

Lee,  Nathaniel 

Le  Sage,  Alain 

Addison,  JosEPn 

Young,  Edward 

Berkeley,  George 

Pope,  Alexander — 

Thomson,  James 

Fielding,  Henry 

Johnson,  Samuel 

Hume,  David 

Gray,  Thomas .' 

Collins,  William 

Smollett,  T.  G 

Home,  John 

Goldsmith,  Oliver 

Darwin,  Erasmus 

Beattie,  James 

Gibbon,  Edward 

Derzhavin,  G.  R 

Smith,  Charlotte 

Sheridan,  R.  B 

Schiller,  J.  C.  F.  von..  ..".. 

Bowles,  W.  L 

Baillie,  Joanna 

Hurdis,  James 

Hall,  Robert.  .    

Grahame,  James 


PAGE 

211 

383 
142 
582 
5;',.-) 
531 
210 
571 

5;J4 

.  351 
165 
243 
85 
120 
246 
237 
35G 
526 
267 
387 
196 
478 
472 
95 

.  598 

.  478 
126 

.  426 
470 
574 
473 

,  213 
99 


Adams,  John  Q 

Chateaubriand,  F.  A.... 
Wordsworth,  William., 

Scott,  Walter 

Brown,  C.  B 

Coleridge,  S.  T 

Wirt,  William 

Jeffrey,  Francis 

Nott,  Ellphalet 

Landor,  W.  S 

Campbell,  Thomas 

Clay,  Henry 

Hazlitt,  William 

Davy,  Humphrey 

Paulding,  J.  K..  

Allston,  Washington... 

Key,  Francis  Scott 

Brougham,  Henry 

Chalmers,  Thomas 

Ciiannino,  W.  E 

Moore,  TnoMAS 

White,  J.  Blanco 

Webster,  Daniel 

Irving,  Washington..  . . 

Pierpont,  John 

De  Quincey,  Thomas 

Dana,  R.  H 

Byron,  George  G 

Cooper,  J.  Fenimore 

Sigourney,  Mrs.  L.  H... . 

Sprague,  Charles 

Shelley,  P.  B 

Hemans,  Mrs.  F 

Bryant,  William  C 


PAGR 

349 
536 

102 
377 

260 

362 

.  249 
295 
365 
155 
347 
487 
537 
185 
227 
178 
508 
150 
549 
139 

.  477 
345 
113- 

.  303 

94 

105 

.  254 
413 

.  405 
199 
517 
311 
132 


1  The  numbers  here  given  refer  to  Biographical  Sketches.    For  Selections, 
see  Alphabetical  List  of  Authors. 


SV1 


CHRONOLOGICAL    LIST    OF    AUTHORS. 


pact: 

Dewey,  Orytlle 206 

Everett,  Edward 287 

Neal,  John 806 

Percival,  J.  G 288 

Proctor,  B.  W 148 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene 400 

Drake,  J.  R 180 

Croly,  George 300 

Carlyle,  Thomas 202 

Coleridge,  Hartley 475 

Knowles,  J.  S 392 

Prescott.  William  H 169 

Wayland,  Francis 301 

Hood,  Thomas 141 

Pollok,  Robert 252 

Taylor,  Henry 518 

Bancroft,  George 171 

Chambers,  Robert 236 

Morris,  George  P 284 

Macaulay,  T.  B 281 

Seward,  William  H 514 

Cox,  William 116 

Greene,  Albert  G 309 

Prentice,  George  D 403 

Emerson,  R.  W 96 

Jerrold,  Douglas 129 

Smith,  Elizabeth  Oakes 421 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel 450 

Lunt,  George 296 


PAGB 

Bailey,  P.  J 476 

Lytton,  E.  Bulwer 337 

Simms,  W.  G 274 

Willis,  N.  P 314 

Cheever,  George  B 405 

Longfellow,  H.  W 354 

Norton,  Caroline  E 152 

Hammond,  James  II 51"* 

Whittier,  John  G 327 

Holmes,  0.  W 233 

Browning,  Elizabeth  B 558 

Clark,  Willis  G 133 

Tennyson,  Alfred 824 

Poe,  Edgar  A 553 

Sumner,  Charles 232 

Thackeray,  William  M 280 

Street,  A.  B 177 

Dickens,  Charles 446 

Hoyt,  Ralph 299 

Browning,  Robert 4S5 

Mackay,  Charles 89 

Osgood,  Francis  S.   546 

Beecher,  Henry  Ward 81 

Motley,  John  L 159 

Wallace,  H.  B 358 

Whipple,  E.  P 239 

Mitchell,  D.  G 102 

Read,  T.  Buchanan 174 

Taylor,  Bayard 310 


PART    I. 
ELOCUTION. 


|j^  LOCUTION  is  the  mode  of  utterance  or  delivery  of 
-L-^   any  thing  spoken.     It  may  be  good  or  bad. 

2.  Good  Elocution,  in  reading  or  speaking,  is  uttering 
ideas  understandinglv,  correctly,  and  effectively.  It  cm- 
braces  the  two  general  divisions,  Orthoepy  and  Expression. 

Readers  may  be  divided  into  three  classes, — the  mechanical, 
or  those  who  merely  pronounce  words,  with  but  slight  reference 
to  their  connections  and  signification  ;  the  intelligent,  or  those 
who  understand  the  meaning  of  the  separate  words,  their  rela- 
tive importance  in  sentences,  and  historical  and  other  refer- 
ences ;  and  the  effective,  or  those  who  bring  out  clearly  the 
emotional  part,  as  well  as  the  exact  and  full  meaning  of  the 
author. 

To  secure  effective  reading — the  only  reading  that  can  satisfy 
a  laudable  ambition — it  will  be  necessary  for  the  student,  first, 
to  acquire  such  a  practical  knowledge  of  the  oral  elements 
of  the  language  as  shall  insure  the  precise  pronunciation  of 
the  separate  words,  with  as  little  apparent  effort  of  the  mind 
as  is  ordinarily  employed  in  the  act  of  walking ;  secondly,  to 
learn  the  definitions  of  unusual  or  peculiarly  significant  words 
in  the  lesson — the  explanations  of  classical,  historical,  and 
other  allusions — and  the  analysis  of  all  sentences  that  embrace 
parenthetical  or  other  incidental  matter;  and  thirdly,  to  ac- 
quire such  a  command  of  the  perceptive  faculties,  of  the  emo- 
tional nature,  and  of  the  elements  of  expression,  as  shall 
enable  him  to  see  clearly  whatever  is  represented  or  described, 
to  enter  fully  into  the  feelings  of  the  writer,  and  to  cause  the 
hearers  to  see,  feel,  and  understand. 


20  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

ORTHOEPY. 

OETHOEPY  is  the  art  of  correct  pronunciation.     It 
embraces  Articulation,  Syllabication,  and  Accent. 

Orthoepy  has  to  do  with  separate  words, — the  production  of 
their  oral  elements,  the  division  of  these  elements  into  sylla- 
bles, and  the  accentuation  of  the  right  syllables. 


I.    ARTICULATION. 

I. 

DEFINITIONS. 

AETICULATION  is  the  distinct  utterance  of  the  oral 
elements  in  syllables  and  words. 

2.  Okal  Elements  are  the  sounds  that,  uttered  sepa- 
rately or  in  combination,  form  syllables  and  words. 

3.  Oral  Elements  are  produced  by  different  positions 
of  the  organs  of  speech,  in  connection  with  the  voice  and 
the  breath. 

4  The  principal  Organs  of  Speech  are  the  lips,  the 
teeth,  the  tongue,  and  the  palate. 

5.  Yoice  is  produced  by  the  action  of  the  breath  upon 
the  larynx.1 

6.  Oral  Elements  are  divided  into  three  classes  : 
eighteen  tonics,  fifteen  subtonics,  and  ten  atonics. 

7.  Tonics  are  pure  tones  produced  by  the  voice,  with  but 
slight  use  of  the  organs  of  speech. 

8.  Subtonics  are  tones  produced  by  the  voice,  modified 
by  the  organs  of  speech. 

9.  Atonics  are  mere  breathings,  modified  by  the  organs 
of  speech. 

10.  Letters  are  characters  that  are  used  to  represent 
or  modify  the  oral  elements. 

11.  The  Alphabet  is  divided  into  vowels  and  consonants. 


•  Larynx. — The  larynx  is  the  up-    consisting    of    five    gristly    pieces 
t>er  part  of  the  trachea  or  windpipe,     which  form  the  organ  of  voice. 


ARTICULATION.  21 

12.  Vowels  are  the  letters  that  usually  represent  the 
tonic  elements.     They  are  a,  e,  i,  o,  u,  and  sometimes  y} 

13.  A  Diphthong  is  the  union  of  two  vowels  in  one  syl- 
lable ;  as,  oa  in  out. 

14.  A  Digraph,  or  Improper  Diphthong,  is  the  union  of 
two  vowels  in  a  syllable,  one  of  whict  rs  silent ;  as  oa  in 
loaf,  on  in  coza't. 

15.  A  Triphthong  is  the  union  of  three  vowels  in  one 
syllable  ;  as  eau  in  beau,  ieu  in  adi'ew. 

16.  Consonants2  are  the  letters  that  usually  represent 
either  subtonic  or  atonic  elements.  They  are  of  two  kinds, 
single  letters  and  combined,  including  all  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet,  except  the  vowels,  and  the  combinations  ch,  sh, 
wh,  ng ;  th  subtonic,  and  th  atonic. 

17.  Labials  are  letters  whose  oral  elements  are  chiefly 
formed  by  the  lips.  They  are  b,  p,  ws  and  wh.  M  may  be 
regarded  as  a  nasal  labial,  as  its  sound  is  affected  by  the 
nose.     F  and  v  are  labia-dentals. 

18.  Dentals  are  letters  whose  oral  elements  are  chiefly 
formed  by  the  teeth.     They  are  j,  s,  z,  ch,  and  sh. 

19.  Linguals  are  letters  whose  oral  elements  are  chiefly 
formed  by  the  tongue.  They  are  d,  I,  r,  and  t.  j\r  is  a 
nasal-lingual ;  ?/,  a  lingua-palatal,  and  th,  a  lingua-dental. 

20.  Palatals  are  letters  whose  oral  elements  are  chiefly 
formed  by  the  palate.  They  are  g  and  h.  KG  is  a  nasal- 
palatal. 

21.  Cognates  are  letters  whose  oral  elements  are  pro- 
duced by  the  same  organs,  in  a  similar  manner ;  thus,  /  is 
a  cognate  of  v  ;  k  of  g,  &c. 

22.  Alphabetic  Equivalents  are  letters,  or  combinations 
of  letters,  that  represent  the  same  elements,  or  sounds: 
thus,  i  is  an  equivalent  of  e,  in  purue. 

1  W  not  a  Vowel. — As  «\  stand-  combinations  because  they  are  rarely 

ing  alone,  does  not  represent  a  pure  used  in  words  without  having  a  vow- 

or  unmodified  tone  in  the  English  el  connected  with  them  in  the  same 

language,  it  is  not  here  classified  syllable,  although  their  oral  elements 

with  the  vowels.  may  be  uttered  separately,  and  with- 

8  Consonant. — The    term    conto-  out  the  aid  of  a  vowel.    Indeed,  they 

nant,  literally    meaning,    sounding  frequently  form  syllables  by  them. 

vritfi,  is  applied  to  these  letters  and  selves,  as  in  fechh  (bl),  taken  (In). 


22 


NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 


II. 
OKAL  .ELEMENTS. 

IN  sounding  the  tonics,  the  organs  should  be  fully 
opened,  and  the  stream  of  sound  from  the  throat  should 
be  thrown,  as  much  as  possible,  directly  upward  against  the 
roof  of  the  mouth.  These  elements  should  open  with  an 
abrupt  and  explosive  force,  and  then  diminish  gradually  and 
equably  to  the  end. 

In  producing  the  subtonic  and  atonic  elements,  it  is  im- 
portant to  press  the  organs  upon  each  other  with  great 
firmness  and  tension ;  to  throw  the  breath  upon  them  with 
force  ;  and  to  prolong  the  sound  sufficiently  to  give  it  a  full 
impression  on  the  ear. 

The  instructor  will  first  require  the  students  to  pronounce 
a  catch-word  once,  and  then  produce  the  oral  element  rep- 
resented by  the  figured  vowel,  or  Italic  consonant,  four 
times — thus ;  age, — a,  a,  a,  a  ;  ate, — a,  a,  a,  a':  at, — a,  a,  a, 
a ;  ash, — a,  a,  a,  a,  (fee.  He  will  exercise  the  class  until 
each  student  can  utter  consecutively  all  the  elementary 
sounds  as  arranged  in  the  following 

TABLE    OF    ORAL    ELEMENTS. 


I. 

TONICS. 

a  or  a,1 

as  in 

age, 

ate. 

e  or  e, 

as  in 

he, 

these. 

a  or  a, 

a 

at, 

ash. 

e  or  e, 

a 

elk, 

end. 

8 

a, 

a 

art, 

arm. 

s   4 

e,4 

a 

her, 

verse. 

4 

a 

Ml, 

ball. 

1  or  T, 

it 

ice, 

child. 

a, 

a 

bare, 

care. 

!  or  I, 

a 

ink, 

inch. 

a,3 

u 

ask, 

glass. 

6  or  6, 

a 

old, 

home. 

1  Long  and  Short  Vowels. — The 
attention  of  the  class  should  be  called 
to  the  fact  that  the  first  element,  or 
sound,  represented  by  ich  of  the 
vowels,  is  usually  indicated  by  a  hori- 
zontal line  placed  over  the  letter,  and 
the  second  sound  by  a  carved  line. 

2  A  Fifth.— The 'fifth  element,  or 
sound,  represented  by  a,  is  its  first 
or  Alphabetic  sound,  modified  or 
softened  by  r.     In    its    production, 


the  lips,  placed  nearly  together,  are 
held  immovable  while  the  student 
tries  to  say,  a. 

3  A  Sixth. — The  sixth  element  rep 
resented  by  a,  is  a  sound  interme- 
diate between  a,  as  heard  in  at,  ash, 
and  a,  as  in  arm,  art.  It  is  produced  by 
prolonging  and  slightly  softening  &. 

*  E  Third. — The  third  element  rep- 
resented by  e,  is  eas  heard  in  end,  pro- 
longed, and  modified  or  softened  by  r. 


TABLE    OF    ORAL    ELEMENTS. 


23 


o  or  o,1 
u  or  Q,2 


as  in   on, 


a 
a 


do, 
cube, 


frost, 
prove. 


cure. 


u  or  u,  as  in  bud, 
full, 
our. 


a 

on. 


ii 
a 


b,  as  in  lube, 
did, 

join, 
/ake, 
?>/ild, 
?»  ame, 


d, 

a 

ff, 

a 

• 

a 

*, 

a 

m, 

a 

n, 

a 

*9, 

a 

n. 

orZ». 
dim. 

gig- 

^'oint. 

/ane. 

?y/ind. 

?iine. 

sung. 


SUBTOXICS. 


r,3  as  in    mke, 


y, 

2. 


ii 

ii 
ii 
ii 
a 
a 


this, 
vine, 
wake, 
yard, 

2-est, 
azure. 


hush, 
push. 
house. 


bar. 
with. 

rice, 
wise. 
yes. 
gaze. 

glazier. 


III.      ATOXICS. 


/, 

as  in 

ykme, 

/i/e- 

£,    as  in 

far/, 

toast. 

/>, 

a 

//ark, 

//arm. 

th,     " 

^//ank, 

youth. 

*, 

a 

Zind, 

Z'iss. 

cA,     " 

c//ase, 

marcA. 

1>> 

a 

py;e, 

_£>um/>. 

*/>,     " 

s/ade, 

6-// ake. 

*i 

a 

*ame, 

sense. 

w//,4  " 

w//ale, 

W/ite. 

1  O  modified. — The  modified  oral 
element  of  0,  in  this  work,  is  repre- 
sented by  (6  or  6)  the  same  marks  as 
its  regular  second  power.  This  mod- 
ified or  medium  element  may  be  pro- 
duced by  uttering  the  sound  of  o  in 
not,  slightly  softened,  with  twice  its 
usual  volume,  or  prolongation.  It  is 
usually  given  when  short  o  is  imme- 
diately followed  by  ff,ft,  ss,  ft,  or  th, 
as  in  off,  soft,  cross,  cost,  broth  ;  also 
in  a  number  of  words  where  short  o 
is  directly  followed  by  n,  or  final 
riff,  as  in  go/?e,  begone  ;  \ong,  along, 
yrong,  song,  strong,  thong,  throng, 
wrong.  Smart  says,  To  give  the 
extreme  short  sound  of  o  to  such 
words  is  affectation ;  to  give  them 
the  full  sound  of  broad  a  (a  in  all), 
is  vulgar. 

3  U  initial — preceded  by  R. —  JJ, 
at  the  beginning  of  words,  when 


long,  has  the  sound  of  yu,  as  in 
■use.  When  u  long,  or  its  alphabetic 
equivalent  ew,  is  preceded  by  r,  or 
the  sound  of  sh,  in  the  same  sylla- 
ble, it  has  always  the  sound  of  o  in 
do;  as,  rude,  sure,  brew. 

3  R  trilled.— Iu  trilling  r,  the  tip 
of  the  tongue  is  made  to  vibrate 
against  the  roof  of  the  mouth.  U 
may  be  trilled  when  immediately  fol- 
lowed by  a  vowel  in  the  same  syl- 
lable. "When  thus  situated  in  em- 
phatic words,  it  should  always  be 
trilled.  Frequently  require  the  stu- 
dent, after  a  full  inhalation,  to  trill  r 
continuously,  as  long  as  possible. 

4  Wh. — To  produce  the  oral  ele- 
ment of  irh,  the  student  will  blow 
from  the  center  of  the  mouth — first 
compressing  the  lips,  and  then  sud- 
denly relaxing  them  while  the  air  Ls 
escaping. 


24  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

m. 

COGNATES. 

FIRST  require  the  student  to  pronounce  distinctly  the 
word  containing  the  atonic  element,  then  the  subtonic 
cognate,  uttering  the  element  after  each  word — thus  :  lip,  jp/ 
orb,  b,  &c.  The  attention  of  the  pupil  should  be  called  to 
the  fact  that  cognates  are  produced  by  the  same  organs,  in 
a  similar  manner,  and  only  differ  in  one  being  an  undertone, 
and  the  other  a  whisper. 

ATONICS.  SUBTONICS. 

lip,        p oro,  b. 

fife,     f vase,  v. 

tvJate,    wh wise,  w. 

save,      s zeal,  z, 

shade,   sh azure,  z. 

c/mrm,  ch i0in>  /• 

tart,       t did,  d. 

thing,    th.     .     . this,  fh. 

JcmJc,     h gig,  g. 

IV. 
ALPHABETIC    EQUIVALENTS. 

THE  instructor  will  require  the  students  to  read  or 
recite  the  table  of  Alphabetic  Equivalents,  using  the 
following  formula :  The  Alphabetic  Equivalents  of  A  first 
'power  are  ai,  an,  ay,  e,  ea,  ee,  ei,  ey  ;  as  in  the  words,  ga/71, 
gawge,  stray,  melee',  great,  vem,  the?/. 

I.      TONIC  ELEMENTS. 

For  a,  ai,  an,  ay,  e,  ea,  ee,  ei,  ey  ;  as  in  gam,  ga?/ge,  stray, 
melee',  great,  \ein,  they. 

For  a,  ai,  ua  ;  as  in  pla/d,  gaaranty. 

For  a,  an,  e,  ea,  ua  /  as  in  haunt,  sergeant,  heart,  guard. 

For  a,  au,  aw,  ea,  o,  oa,  ou;  as  in  fault,  haa:k,  Gearge, 
eork,  braad,  bought. 


SUBTONIC    AND    ATONIC    ELEMENTS.  25 

For  a,  ai,  e,  ea,  ei/  as  in  chair,  th^re,  swear,  heir. 

For  e,  ea,  ee,  ei,  eo,  ey,  i,  ie  j  as  in  read,  deep,  ceil,  p^ple, 
kry,  valise,  field. 

For  e,  a,  ai,  ay,  ea,  ei,  eo,  ie,  u,  ice  /  as  in  any,  said,  says, 
head,  heifer,  leopard,  fWcnd,  bury,  guess. 

For  e,  ea,  i,  o,  ou,  u,  ice,  y  ;  as  in  earth,  girl,  word,  scoz^rge, 
hum,  guerdon,  myrrh. 

For  i,  ai,  ei,  eye,  ie,  oi,  id,  uy,  y,  ye;  as  in  aisle,  sWght, 
eye,  die,  choir,  guide,  buy,  my,  rye. 

For  i,  ai,  e,  ee,  ie,  o,  oi,  u,  id,  y ;  as  in  captrmi,  pretty, 
been,  sieve,  women,  tortoise,  busj,  bidld,  hymn. 

For  6,  au,  eau,  eo,  ew,  oa,  oe,  oo,  ou,  ow /  as  in  hautboy, 
beau,  yeoman,  sew,  coal,  foe,  door,  sou],  blow. 

For  6,  a,  ou,  ow  /  as  in  what,  ho^gh,  knowledge. 

For  6,  ew,  oe,  oo,  ou,  it,  ui  ;  as  in  grew,  shoe,  spoon,  soun, 
rude,  fruit. 

For  u,  eau,  eu,  ew,  ieu,  tew,  ue,  id;  as  in  beauty,  feud, 
new,  adieu,  view,  hue,  juice. 

For  u,  o,  oe,  oo,  ouf  as  in  love,  does,  bloo<:7,  young. 

For  u,  o,  oo,  ou  j  wolf,  book,  could. 

For  ou,  ow  j  as  in  now. 

For  oi  (ai),  oy/  as  in  b^>y. 

n.      SUBTONIC  AND  ATONIC  ELEMENTS. 

For  f,  (jh,  ph  /  as  in  cony//,  nymph. 
For  j,  ^  /  as  in  yem,  yin. 

For  k,  c,  eh,  gh,  q  ;  as  in  cole,  conch,  lowgh,  etiquette. 
For  s,  c  /  as  in  cell. 

For  t,  cl,  th,  phth  /  as  in  danced,  Thames,  phthisic. 
For  v,f,ph;  as  in  of,  Stephen. 
For  y,  i  ;  as  in  pimon. 
For  z,  c,  s,  x  ;  as  in  suffice,  rose,  ^ebec. 
For  z,  g,  s  /  as  in  rouye,  osier. 
For  ng,  n  *  as  in  a;iger,  ba»k. 
For  ch,  t ;  as  in  fustian. 

For  sh,  c,  ch,  s,  ss,  t ;  as  in  ocean,  chaise,  sure,  assure, 
martial, 


26  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

V. 
ORAL    ELEMENTS    COMBINED. 

AFTEE  the  instructor  has  given  a  class  thorough  drill 
on  the  preceding  tables  as  arranged,  the  following 
exercises  will  be  found  of  great  value,  to  improve  the  or- 
gans of  speech  and  the  voice,  as  well  as  to  familiarize 
the  student  with  different  combinations  of  sounds.  Stu- 
dents will  not  pass  from  these  exercises  until  they  can  utter 
the  elements  represented  by  the  figured  vowels  in  whatever 
order  the  instructor  may  require. 

As  the  fifth  element  represented  by  a,  and  the  third  ele- 
ment of  e,  are  always  immediately  followed  by  the  oral 
element  of  r  in  words,  the  r  is  introduced  in  like  manner 
in  these  exercises.  Since  the  sixth  sound  of  a,  when  not 
a  syllable  by  itself,  is  always  immediately  followed  by  the 
oral  element  of  /,  n,  or  s,  in  words,  these  letters  are  here 
employed  in  the  same  manner. 

I.      TONICS  AND   SUBTONICS. 


1.  ba, 

ba, 

b^ 

ba, 

bar, 

baf ; 

M, 

be, 

b£r; 

h, 

W; 

bo, 

bo, 

bo  ; 

bu, 

bu, 

bii; 

bou. 

ab, 

ab, 

ab, 

ab, 

arb, 

if; 

eb, 

eb, 

erb; 

ib, 

lb; 

6b, 

6b, 

6b ; 

lib. 

ub, 

ub; 

oub. 

da, 

da, 

da, 

da, 

dar, 

das ; 

de, 

de, 

der ; 

ai, 

cli ; 

do, 

do, 

do; 

du, 

du, 

du; 

dou. 

ad, 

ad, 

ad, 

ad, 

ard, 

if; 

ed, 

ed, 

erd; 

id, 

Id; 

6d, 

6d, 

6d  ; 

iid, 

ud, 

ud; 

oud. 

ga, 

ag> 
*g> 

ga, 

g'; 

ag, 

3 

ga, 
g°, 

3 
Ilg> 

"Si 

ga, 

g(% 
ag, 
&g, 

gar, 

gu; 

arg, 

5g ; 

gan ; 

gu, 

af; 

ug, 

ge, 

s 

gll> 

eg, 

fig, 

g3, 

3 

gu; 

ger; 
gou. 
erg; 
crag. 

2.  j  as, 

ft 

las, 

jar, 

J1! 

lar, 

lb, 

•  3 

la, 

•  3 

J  a, 

la, 

•  9 

•  1 

la, 

•  3 

la ; 

•  3 

jer, 

•  9 

ler, 

• » 

ju; 
is, 

Je; 

jou. 
le; 

15, 

i}; 

i/>, 

15, 

16; 

ia, 

1  3 
hi, 

16; 

lou. 

u, 

arl, 

al, 

al, 

B, 

al ; 

erJ, 

a, 

61; 

11, 

11 5 

61, 

61, 

61; 

a, 

ul, 

61; 

oui. 

TONIO    AND    ATOXIC    COMBINATIONS 


27 


mas, 

mar, 

md, 

ma. 

ma, 

ma; 

mer, 

me, 

me ; 

ml. 

mi ; 

mo, 

m6, 

mo ; 

mil, 

mu, 

mu; 

mou 

ai;' 

arm, 

am, 

am. 

am, 

am ; 

LTlll, 

om, 

em ; 

Im, 

im ; 

5m, 

om, 

om  ; 

um, 

um, 

inn ; 

oum. 

3.   na, 

na, 

na, 

nar, 

naf, 

na ; 

ne, 

ner, 

nfi ; 

ni, 

9 

in; 

no, 

no, 

no ; 

nu, 

nil, 

nu; 

nou. 

ang, 

arng, 

ang, 

if, 

ang, 

ang ; 

£ng, 

erng, 

OTXcr  ' 

*ng, 

mg; 

ong, 

6ng, 

6ng; 

ung, 

nng, 

nng ; 

oung 

ra, 

ra, 

rar, 

ra, 

4 

ra, 

raf ; 

re, 

rer, 

re ; 

ri, 

ri; 

ri, 

ro, 

ro ; 

ru, 

■ 

ru, 

ru; 

rou. 

4.   £ha, 

fii  a, 

fiiar, 

fliaf, 

fhd, 

fha ; 

fhor, 

■flic, 

the , 

flii, 

fill; 

fho, 

Hio, 

fho; 

fhii, 

fllll, 

fliu; 

fhou. 

•ith, 

Afli, 

af, 

afh, 

arCh, 

afh; 

o£h, 

orlh, 

efh ; 

Ifli, 

Ifli; 

ofh, 

6fh, 

ofli ; 

u£h, 

urh, 

ufii ; 

oivfti. 

va, 

■ 
va, 

var, 

■ 
va, 

A' at, 

4 

va ; 

VLT, 

vo, 

yS; 

*i, 

vi ; 

vo, 

yo, 

vo ; 

yu, 

vu ; 

vou. 

aV, 

at, 

av, 

av, 

av, 

arv ; 

erv. 

Ov, 

ev; 

iv? 

s 

iv  ; 

ov. 

ov, 

6v; 

uv, 

uv, 

uv; 

ouv. 

wa, 

w&, 

war, 

wa, 

wd, 

waf ; 

wer, 

2 

we, 

we; 

wl, 

wi; 

wo, 

wo, 

wo ; 

wu, 

wu, 

wu ; 

wou. 

5.  ya, 

ya, 

ya, 

va, 

yar, 

van ; 

ye? 

y«, 

ver : 

fh 

s 

y&> 

9 

yo, 

B 

yo; 

y*« 

9 

yn, 

yfl ; 

vou. 

•> 

zou ; 

ZU, 

zu, 

zu; 

zo, 

zo, 

zo ; 

a 
Zl, 

zl; 

ze*r, 

ze, 

ze ; 

zaf, 

zar, 

za, 

za, 

9 

za, 

za. 

onz; 

11Z, 

UZ, 

uz ; 

3 

oz, 

9 

OZ, 

oz ; 

iz, 

iz; 

§rz, 

6z, 

ez ; 

if, 

arz, 

az. 

az, 

az, 

az. 

II.      TONIC  AND  ATONIC   COMBINATIONS. 


1.   fa, 

ft. 


fa,        fa. 


fi 


ak,  ak, 

Ik,  Ik ; 

pa,  pa, 

vh  v'1 ; 


ft. 


liar,     han,    ha, 
hi.       hi : 


no, 
ak, 
ok, 
pa, 
po, 


fa, 

far, 

las ; 

&, 

fo, 

fi; 

fu, 

fu, 

ha, 

ha, 

ha ; 

ho, 

ho, 

ho  ; 

hu, 

hii. 

ak, 

ark, 

fif; 

ek, 

ok, 

ok ; 

uk, 

uk, 

pa, 

par, 

paf; 

pe, 

po, 

po; 

pu. 

pn, 

fe, 
fu; 

ho, 
hu 


i' 


tik; 

pe, 

pn; 


for ; 
fou. 
her ; 
hou. 
erk ; 
ouk. 

pei*; 

pou. 


28 


NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 


2.    af, 

ars, 

as, 

as, 

as, 

as ; 

ers, 

es, 

es; 

is, 

is; 

OS, 

6s; 

us, 

us, 

us ; 

ous. 

tas, 

A.  " 

tar, 

til, 

ta, 

ta, 

ta; 

ter, 

to, 

te; 

ti, 

tl\ 

to, 

tS, 

to; 

til, 

tu, 

tu; 

tou. 

thaf, 

thar, 

tha, 

tha, 

tha, 

tha ; 

ther, 

the, 

the; 

ith, 

ith ; 

6th, 

6  th, 

6th; 

uth, 

uth, 

uth; 

outh. 

ouch : 

uch, 

iich, 

iich; 

och, 

och, 

och  ; 

icb, 

Ich  ; 

erch, 

och, 

ech; 

af, 

ach, 

ach, 

arch, 

*  i 

ach. 

3.   chou : 

cha, 

chu, 

chii; 

ch6, 

cho, 

ch6; 

dd, 

chi; 

cher, 

che, 

che ; 

cha, 

cha, 

cha, 

cha, 

char, 

chan. 

oush ; 

ush, 

ush, 

ush; 

osh, 

osh, 

osh ; 

ish, 

ish ; 

teh, 

esh, 

esii ; 

ash, 

af, 

ash, 

ash, 

ash, 

arsh. 

shou ; 

shu, 

shu, 

shu ; 

sho, 

sho, 

sho; 

sin, 

sin ; 

sh&r, 

she, 

she; 

shan, 

shar, 

sha, 

sha, 

sha, 

sha. 

whou;whu, 

whu, 

whu ; 

who, 

who, 

who ; 

win, 

win ; 

wher, 

wlie, 

whe ; 

whas, 

whar 

,  wha, 

wha, 

wha, 

wha. 

VI. 
ERRORS    IN    ARTICULATION. 

ERRORS  in  Articulation  arise  chiefly,  first,  from  the 
omission  of  one  or  more  elements  in  a  word ;  as, 


an' 

for 

and. 

sta'm 

for 

stoT-m. 

frien's 

a 

friends. 

wa'm 

a 

wann. 

blln'ness  " 

hlin^  ness. 

boist'rous  " 

bois  ter  ous. 

fac's 

a 

facte. 

chick'n 

u 

chick  en. 

sof  ly 

a 

soft  ly. 

his  t'ry 

a 

his  to  ry. 

fiel's 

u 

fields. 

nov'l 

a 

nov  el. 

wil's 

a 

wikfe. 

trav'l 

a 

trav  el. 

Secondly,  from  uttering  one  or  more  elements  that  should 
not  be  sounded ;  as, 


ev  en 

for 

ev'n. 

rav  el 

for 

rav'l. 

heav  en 

a 

heav'n. 

sev  en 

U 

sev'n. 

tak  en 

u 

tak'n. 

sof  ten 

a 

sof'n. 

sick  en 

a 

sick'n. 

shak  en 

a 

shak'n. 

driv  el 

a 

driv'l. 

shov  el 

a 

shov'l. 

grov  el 

u 

<>tov'1. 

shriv  el 

u 

shriv'l. 

WORDS. 


29 


Tliirdly,  from  substituting  one  element  for  another  ;  as, 

c6urse. 


set 

sSncc 

shet 

for  g!t 

care 

dance 

past 

ask 

grass 

mil 

urirl 

a  iran 

aganst 

berth 


for   sit. 
it 


u 

u 

a 

u 

a 

it 

u 

a 

a 

a 

a 

a 


since. 

shut. 

for  get. 

ciire. 

dance. 

past. 

ask. 

grass. 

s/triW. 

whirl. 

again  (a gen). 

against  (a  genst). 

hearth  (harth). 


for 
u 

it 

a 
a 


carse 
re  part 
tr5f  fv 
pa  rent 
bun  net 
chil  drun  " 
sul lcr  " 
mcl  hr 
pil  L  r 
mo  m?/nt 
harm  1/ss  " 
kind  mss    ' 


u 
a 
ti 


tvis  per 
sing  bi 


u 
a 


re  port, 
tro  phy. 
par  ent. 
hon  net. 
chil  dren. 
eel  lar. 
mel  \vw. 
pil  Ibw. 
mo  ment. 
harm  less, 
kind  ik'SS. 
whis  per. 
sing  ing. 


vn. 

WOKDS. 


A  WORD  is  one  or  more  Oral  elements,  or  letters  used 
to  represent  an  idea. 

2.  Words  are  divided  into  primitive,  derivative,  simple, 
and  compound. 

3.  A  iTJMiTrvE  word   istnot  derived,  hut  constitutes  a 
root  from  which  other  words  are  formed  ;  as  faith,  ease. 

4.  A  derivative  wopd  is  formed  of  a  primitive  and  an 
affix  or  prefix  ;  as  faitli/W,  disease. 

5.  A  simple  word  is  one  that  can  not  be  divided  without 
destroying  the  sense  ;  as  an,  the,  book. 

6.  A  compound  word  is  formed  by  two  or  more  words ;  as 
inkstand,  book-binder,  laughing-stock. 

vm. 

ANALYSIS    OF    WORDS. 

IN  order  to  secure  a  practical  knowledge  of  the  preced- 
ing definitions  and  tables,  to  leam  to  spell  spoken  words 
by  their  oral  elements,  and  to  understand  the  uses  of  let- 


30  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

ters  in  written  words,  the  instructor  will  require  the  student 
to  master  the  following  exhaustive,  though  simple  analysis. 

Analysis. — 1st.  The  word  salve,  in  pronunciation,  is 
formed  by  the  union  of  three  oral  elements  ;  s  a  v — salve. 
[Here  let  the  student  utter  the  three  oral  elements  separa- 
tely, and  then  pronounce  the  word.]  The  first  is  a  modified 
breathing ;  hence,  it  is  an  atonic.1  The  second  is  a  pure 
tone  ;  hence,  it  is  a  tonic.  The  third  is  a  modified  tone ; 
hence,  it  is  a  subtonic. 

2d.  The  word  salve,  in  writing,  is  represented  by  five 
letters ;  s  a  1  v  e — salve.  S  represents  an  atonic  ;  hence,  it 
is  a  consonant.  Its  oral  element  is  chiefly  formed  by  the 
teeth  ;  hence,  it  is  a  dental.  Its  oral  element  is  produced 
by  the  same  organs  and  in  a  similar  manner  as  the  first 
oral  element  of  z  ;  hence,  it  is  a  cognate  of  z.  A  represents 
a  tonic  ;  hence,  it  is  a  vowel.  L  is  silent.  V  represents  a 
subtonic ;  hence,  it  is  a  consonant.  Its  oral  element  is 
chiefly  formed  by  the  lower  lip  and  the  upper  teeth  ;  hence, 
it  is  a  labia-dental.  Its  oral  element  is  formed  by  the  same 
organs  and  in  a  similar  manner  as  that  of/;  hence,  it  is  a 
cognate  of  /.     E  is  silent. 

Analysis. — 1st.  The  word  shoe,  in  'pronunciation,  is  formed 
by  the  union  of  two  oral  elements  ;  sh  6 — shoe.  The  first 
is  a  modified  breathing  ;  hence,  it  is  an  atonic.  The  second 
is  a  pure  tone ;  hence,  it  is  a  tonic. 

2d.  The  word  shoe,  in  writing,  is  represented  by  four 
letters  ;  s  h  o  e — shoe.  The  combination  sh  represents  an 
atonic  ;  hence,  it  is  a  consonant.  Its  oral  element  is  chiefly 
formed  by  the  teeth ;  hence,  it  is  a  dental.  Its  oral  ele- 
ment is  produced  by  the  same  organs  and  in  a  similar 
manner  as  the  second  oral  element  represented  by  z  ; 
hence,  it  is  a  cognate  of  z.  The  combination  oe  is  formed 
by  the  union  of  two  vowels,  one  of  which  is  silent ;  hence, 

J  The   analysis   logical. — It   will  stated,  is  as  follows  : — All  modified 
be  seen  that  this  analysis  is  strictly  breathings  are  Atonies  ; 
logical  ;  and  that  each  conclusion  is  The  oral  element  of  *  is  a  modi- 
deduced  from  two  premises,  one  of  fied  breathing ; 
which  (the  major  proposition)  is  sup-  Hence,  the  oral  element  of  s  is  an 
pressed.    The  first  syllogism,  fully  Atonic 


ANALYSIS    OF    WORDS.  31 

it  is  an  improper  diphthong.  It  represents  the  oral  ele- 
ment usually  represented  by  o ;  hence,  it  is  an  alphabetic 
equivalent  of  6. 

Analysis — 1st.  The  compound  word  fbutt'-bud  is  a  dis- 
syllable, accented  on  the  penult.  In  pronunciation,  it  is 
formed  by  the  union  of  seven  oral  elements  ;  f  r  6t'-b  iid — 
fruit'-bud.  The  first  is  a  modified  breathing ;  hence,  it  is 
an  atonic.  The  second  is  a  modified  tone ;  hence,  it  is  a 
subtonic.  The  third  is  a  pure  tone ;  hence,  it  is  a  tonic. 
The  fourth  is  a  modified  breathing ;  hence,  it  is  an  atonic. 
The  fifth  is  a  modified  tone  ;  hence,  it  is  a  subtonic.  The 
sixth  is  a  pure  tone  ;  hence,  it  is  a  tonic.  The  seventh  is  a 
modified  tone  ;  hence,  it  is  a  subtonic. 

2d.  The  word  fruit-bud,  in  writing,  is  represented  by 
eight  letters  ;  fruit-bud.  F represents  an  atonic ;  hence, 
it  is  a  consonant.  Its  oral  element  is  chiefly  formed  by  the 
lower  lip  and  the  upper  teeth ;  hence,  it  is  a  labia-dental. 
Its  oral  element  is  produced  by  the  same  organs  and  in  a 
similar  manner  as  that  of  v  ;  hence,  it  is  a  cognate  of  v. 
II  represents  a  subtonic  ;  hence,  it  is  a  consonant.  Its  oral 
element  is  chiefly  formed  by  the  tongue  ;  hence,  it  is  a  lin- 
gual. The  combination  ui  is  formed  by  the  union  of  two 
vowels ;  hence,  it  is  a  diphthong.  It  represents  the  oral 
element  usually  represented  by  6 ;  hence,  it  is  an  alpha- 
betic equivalent  of  6.  T  represents  an  atonic  ;  hence,  it  is 
a  consonant.  Its  oral  element  is  chiefly  formed  by  the 
tongue  ;  hence,  it  is  a  lingual.  Its  oral  element  is  produced 
by  the  same  organ  and  in  a  similar  manner  as  that  of  d ; 
hence,  it  is  a  cognate  of  d.  B  represents  a  subtonic  ;  hence, 
it  is  a  consonant.  Its  oral  clement  is  chief! v  formed  by  the 
lips  ;  hence,  it  is  a  labial.  Its  oral  element  is  produced  by 
the  same  organs  and  in  a  similar  manner  as  that  of  p ; 
hence,  it  is  a  cognate  of  p.  U  represents  a  tonic  ;  hence, 
it  is  a  vowel.  D  represents  a  subtonic  ;  hence,  it  is  a  con- 
sonant. Its  oral  element  is  chiefly  formed  by  the  tongue  ; 
hence,  it  is  a  lingual.  Its  oral  element  is  produced  by  the 
same  organ  and  in  a  similar  manner  as  that  of  t ;  hence,  it 
is  a  cognate  of  t. 


32  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

IX. 

RULES    IN    ARTICULATION. 

A  AS  the  name  of  a  letter,  or  when  used  as  an  emphatic 
word,  should  always  be  pronounced  a  (a  in  age) ;  as, 

She  did  not  say  that  the  three  boys  knew  the  letter  a,  but 
that  a  boy  knew  it. 

2.  The  word  A,  when  not  emphatic,  is  marked  short  (a),1 
though  in  quality  it  should  be  pronounced  nearly  like  a  as 
heard  in  ask,  grass ;  as, 

Give  a  baby  sister  a  smile,  a  kind  word,  and  a  kiss. 

3.  The,  when  not  emphatic  nor  immediately  followed  by 
a  word  that  commences  with  a  vowel  sound,  should  be  pro- 
nounced thu ;  as, 

The  (fliu)  peach,  the  (mu)  plum,  the  apple,  and  the  (thu) 
cherry  are  yours.     Did  he  ask  for  a  pen,  or  for  the  pen  ? 

4.  U  preceded  BY  R. — When  u  long  (u  in  tube),  or  its 
alphabetic  equivalent  eiv,  is  preceded  by  r,  or  the  sound  of 
sh,  in  the  same  syllable,  it  has  always  the  sound  of  o  in 
do;  as, 

Are  you  sure  that  shrewd  youth  was  rude  ? 

5.  R  may  BE  trilled  when  immediately  followed  by  a 
vowel  sound  in  the  same  syllable.  When  thus  situated  in 
emphatic  words,  it  should  always  be  trilled ;  as, 

He  is  both  brave  and  true.    She  said  scratching,  not  scrawling, 

X. 

EXERCISES    IN    ARTICULATION. 

SILENT  letters  are  here  omitted,  in  most  of  the  exam- 
ples, and  the  words  are  spelled  as  they  should  be  pro- 
nounced. Students  will  read  the  sentences  several  times, 
both  separately  and  in  concert,  uttering  all  the  oral  ele- 
ments with  force  and  distinctness.     They  will  also  analyze 

1  A  initial. — A  in  many  words,  or  volume  of  sound  being  less  than 
as  an  initial  unaccented  syllable,  is  that  of  a  sixth  power  (a),  as  in  alas, 
also  marked  short  (a),  its  quantity    aniass,  abaft. 


EXERCISES    IN    ARTICULATION.  33 

the  words,  both  as  spoken  and  written,  and  name  the  rules 
in  articulation  that  are  illustrated  by  the  exercises. 

Sentences  that  are  printed  in  the  usual  style  are  in- 
tended for  dictation  exercises,  in  which  silent  letters  will  be 
omitted  and  the  words  so  written  as  to  represent  their  cor- 
rect and  exact  pronunciation. 

1.  Thou  ladst  down  and  sleptst. 

2.  Thu  hold,  bad  baiz  brok  bolts  and  barz. 

3.  Hi  on  a  hil  II u  herd  harsez  harni  hofs. 

4.  Sliur  al  her  pafhz  ar  pafhz  6v  pes. 

5.  Ba !  that'z  not  sties  dollarz,  but  a  dollar. 

6.  Charj  the  old  man  to  ch6z  a  chats  chGz. 

7.  Lit  eeking  lit,  hath  lit  uv  lit  begild. 

8.  Thu  hosts  stud  stll,  In  silent  wimder  fikst. 

9.  A  thouzand  shreks  far  hoples  inert!  kal. 

10.  Thu  follslmes  6-v  folz  iz  lolli. 

11.  Both'z  yoths  with  troths  yiiz  6fhz. 

12.  Arm  it  with  ragz,  a  pigmi  stra  wil  pers  it4 

13.  Kou  set  fhu  teth  and  strech  thu  nostril  wid. 
14:.  He  wocht  and  wept,  he  felt  and  prad  far  al. 
15.  II Iz  iz,  amidst  fhu  mists,  mezerd  an  azer  ski. 
1G.  Thu  febl,  fritnd  frernan  febl!  fat  far  fredum. 

17.  Whispers  of  revenge  passed  silently  around  among 
the  troops. 

18.  ~N6  shet  nar  shroud  enshrind  flioz  shrunsrkn  shredz  6v 
shrivld  kla. 

19.  lie  has  prints  of  an  ice-house,  an  ocean,  and  wasts 
and  deserts. 

20.  Thu  whiilz  wheld  and  wherld,  and  bard  fhar  brad, 
broun  baks. 

21.  Jllz  and  Jasn  Jdnz  kan  nut  sa, — Arora,  alas,  amas, 
manna,  villa,  nar  Luna. 

22.  It  will  pain  nobody,  if  the  sad  dangler  regain  neither 
rope. 

23.  The  ragged  madman,  in  his  ramble,  did  madly  ran- 
sack every  pantry  in  the  parish. 

24.  What  fhou  wudst  hill  that  fliou  wudst  holilf. 


34:  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

25.  He  aksepts  fhe  6fF!s,  ekspekts  to  lern  fhu  fakts,  and 
attemts  bl  hiz  akts  to  konsel  hiz  falts. 

2G.  Prithee,  blithe  youth,  do  not  mouth  your  words  "when 
you  wreathe  your  face  with  smiles. 

27.  That  fellow  shot  a  sparrow  on  a  willow,  in  the  nar- 
row meadow,  near  the  yellow  house. 

28.  Thu  strif  seseth,  pes  approcheth,'  and  fhu  gud  man 
rejaiseth. 

29.  Thu  shrod  shroz  bad  him  sa  that  fhu  vil  viksnz  yuzd 
shrugz,  and  sharp  shril  shreks. 

30.  Shorli,  fho  wended,  fhu  prudent  rekrot  wud  not  et 
that  krod  frot. 

31 .  Stern,  rugged  ners  !  fhl  rljfd  16r  wifh  pashens  men!  a 
yer  she  b6r. 

32.  At  that  time,  the  lame  man,  who  began  nobly,  having 
made  a  bad  point,  wept  bitterly. 

33.  When  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore,  the  hoarse, 
rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

34.  "What  whim  led  White  Whitney  to  whittle,  whistle, 
whisper,  and  whimper  near  the  wharf,  where  a  floundering 
whale  might  wheel  and  whirl  ? 

35.  Amidst  fhu  mists  and  koldest  frosts,  wrfti  barest  rfsts 
and  stoutest  bests,  he  thrusts  hiz  fists  agenst  fhu  posts,  and 
stil  insists  he  sez  fhu  gosts. 

36.  Thangks  to  Thaddeiis  Thikthong,  fliu.  thatles  thissl- 
sifter,  h6  thiis  thrust  thro  thouzand  thisslz  thro  fhu  tlnk  6v 
hiz  thum. 

37.  Thou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God  in 
vain ;  for  the  Lord  will  not  hold  him  guiltless  who  taketh 
his  name  in  vain. 

38.  Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother  that  thy  days  may 
be  long  in  the  land  which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee. 

39.  A  starm  arizeth  on  fliu  se.  A  model  vessel  !z  strug- 
gling amidst  thu  war  6v  elements,  kwivering  and  shivering, 
shringking  and  battling  lik  a  thfngkhig  being.  Thu  m&rsi- 
les,  raking  wherhvindz,  lik  fritful  fendz,  houl  and  m6n,  and 
send  sharp,  shril  shreks  thro  fliu  kreking  kardaj,  snapping 


PHONETIC    LAUGHTER.  35 

fhu  shets  and  masts.     Tim  sterdi  salarz  stand  to  fhar  tasks, 
and  wefher  fhu  severest  starm  6v  fhu  sezn. 

40.  Chast-id,  cherisht  dies  !  Thu  charmz  6v  fhi  chekerd 
chambe'rz  chan  me  chanjlesli.  Chamberllnz,  ehaplinz,  and 
chansellarz  hav  chanted  fhi  cherobik  chiusnes.  Cheftinz 
hav  chanjd  fhu  chariot  and  fhu  chas  far  fhu  ches-bord  and 
fhu  charming  charj  6v  fhu  ches-nits.  K6  chiling  cherl,  no 
dieting  chatterer,  no  chattering  chanjling  kan  be  fhi  che-zn 
champion.  Thou  art  fhu  chassner  ov  fhu  cherlish,  fhu  chider 
6v  fhu  ehanjabl,  fhu  cherisher  6v  fhu  cherful  and  fhu  char- 
itabl.  Far  fhe  ar  fhu  chaplets  6v  chanles  chant  1  and  fliu 
chalis  6v  ehildlik  cherfiilnes.  Chanj  kan  not  chanj  fhe : 
from  childhud  to  fliu  charnel-hous,  from  our  ferst  childish 
cherpingz  tu  thu  ehilz  6v  fhu  cherch-yard,  fhou  art  our  cheri, 
chanj  16s  cheftfnes. 

XI. 

PHONETIC    LAUGHTER. 

LAUGHTER,  by  the  aid  of  Phonetics,  is  easily  taught, 
as  an  art.  It  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 
healthy  of  all  class  exercises.  It  may  be  either  vocal  or 
respiratory. 

2.  There  are  thirty-two  well-defined  varieties  of  laughter 
in  the  English  language,  eighteen  of  which  are  produced 
in  connection  with  the  tonics  ;  nine,  with  the  subtonics  of  7, 
m,  n,  ng,  r,  th,  v,  and  z  ;  and  five,  with  the  atonies  of/,  h,  s, 
tli,  and  sh. 

3.  Commencing  with  vocal  laughter,  the  instructor  will 
first  utter  a  tonic,  and  then,  prefixing  the  oral  element  of  I, 
and  accompanied  by  the  class,  he  will  produce  the  syllable 
continuously,  subject  only  to  the  interruptions  that  are  inci- 
dental to  inhalations  and  bursts  of  laughter  ;  as,  a,  ha,  ha, 
ha,  ha,  ha,  &c, — a,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  &c. 

4.  The  attention  of  the  students  will  be  called  to  the 
most  agreeable  kinds  of  laughter,  and  they  will  be  taught 
to  pass  naturally  and  easily  from  one  variety  to  another. 


36  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

II.    SYLLABICATION*. 

I. 

DEFINITIONS. 

A  SYLLABLE  is  a  word,  or  part  of  a  word,  uttered  by 
a  single  impulse  of  the  voice. 

2.  A  Monosyllable  is  a  word  of  one  syllable ;  as,  Jiome. 

3.  A  Dissyllable  is  a  word  of  two  syllables ;  as,  liome-less. 

4.  A  Trisyllable  is  a  word  of  three  syllables ;  as,  con- 
fine-ment. 

5.  A  Polysyllable  is  a  word  of  four  or  more  syllables ; 
as,  in-no-cen-cy,  un-in-tel-li-gi-bil-i-ly. 

6.  The  Ultimate  is  the  last  syllable  of  a  word ;  as  fid, 
in  peace^?. 

7.  The  Penult,  or  penultimate,  is  the  last  syllable  but 
one  of  a  word ;  as  mdJc,  in  peace-wafc-er. 

8.  The  Antepenult,  or  antepenultimate,  is  the  last  syl- 
lable but  two  of  a  word ;  as  ta,  in  spon-fa-ne-ous. 

9.  The    Preantepenult,  or  preantepenultimate,  is  the 
last  syllable  but  three  of  a  word ;  as  cab,  in  vo-ca£-u-la-ry. 

n. 

FOKMATION  of  syllables. 

A  SINGLE  impulse  of  the  voice  can  produce  but  one 
radical  or  opening  and  vanishing  or  gradually  dimin- 
ishing movement.  Since  a  syllable  is  produced  by  a  single 
impulse  of  the  voice,  it  follows  that  only  such  an  oral  ele- 
ment, or  order  of  oral  elements,  as  gives  but  one  radical 
and  vanish  movement,  can  enter  into  its  formation.  As  the 
tonics  can  not  be  uttered  separately  without  producing  this 
movement,  but  one  of  them  can  enter  into  a  single  syllable  ; 
and,  as  this  movement  is  all  that  is  essential,  each  of  the 
tonics  may,  by  itself,  form  a  syllable.  Consistently  with 
this,  we  find,  whenever  two  tonics  adjoin,  they  always  be- 
long to  separate  syllables  in  pronunciation,  as  in  a-e-ri-al, 
I'-o-ta,  o-a-sis. 


RULES    IN    SYLLABICATION.  37 

2.  Though  oral  elements  can  not  be  combined  with  a  view 
to  lengthen  a  syllable,  by  the  addition  of  one  tonic  to  another, 
as  this  would  produce  a  new  and  separate  impulse,  yet  a 
syllable  may  be  lengthened  by  prefixing  and  affixing  any 
number  of  tonics  and  atonies  to  a  tome,  that  do  not  des- 
troy its  singleness  of  impulse ;  as,  a,  an,  and,  land,  gland, 
glands. 

3.  A  tonic  is  usually  regarded  as  indispensable  in  the 
formation  of  a  syllable.  A  few  syllables,  however,  are 
formed  exclusively  by  subtonics.  In  the  words  biddc-?i 
rive-n,  rhyth-??*,  schis-m,  fic-7:c7e,  i-dlc,  lit-tle,  and  words  of 
like  construction,  the  last  syllable  is  either  pure  subtonic, 
or  a  combination  of  subtonic  and  atonic.  These  final  svl- 
lables  go  through  the  radical  and  vanish  movement,  though 
they  are  far  inferior  in  quality,  euphony,  and  force,  to  the 
full  display  of  these  properties  on  the  tonics. 

m. 

EULES    IN    SYLLABICATION. 

TNITIAL  CONSONANTS.— The  elements  of  consonants 
-B-  that  commence  words  should  be  uttered  distinctly,  but 
should  not  be  much  prolonged.1 

2.  Final  Consonants. — Elements  that  are  represented 
by  final  consonants  should  be  dwelt  upon,  and  uttered  with 
great  distinctness ;  as, 

He  accep/s  the  office,  ancZ  attempts  by  his  nets  to  conceal  his 
faul/s. 

3.  When  one  word  or  a  sentence  ends  and  the  next 
begins  with  the  same  consonant,  or  another  that  is  hard  to 
produce  after  it,  a  difficulty  in  utterance  arises  that  should 
be  obviated  by  dwelling  on  the  final  consonant,  and  then 
taking  up  the  one  at  the  beginning  of  the  next  word,  in  a 

1  Initial  Elements  Prolonged. —  the  following  lines : 

On  this  point  Dr.  Rusn  mentions  the  "  Canst   thou  not  w-inistei   to  a 

error  of  a  distinguished  actor,  who,  m4nd  diseased, 

in  order  to  give  great  force  and  dis-  P£-uck  from  the  w-emory  a  r-oot 

tmctness  to  his  articulation,  dwelt  ed  sorrow  ?" 

on  the  initial  letters,  as  marked  in  Such  mouthing  defeats  its  object 


38  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

second  impulse   of  the  voice,   without  pausing  between 
them ;  as, 

It  will  pai?i  nobody,  if  the  sao*  dangle?'  regain  neither  rope. 

4.  Final  Cognates. — In  uttering  the  elements  of  the 
final  cognates,  b,  p,  d,  t,  g,  and  1c,  the  organs  of  speech 
should  not  remain  closed  at  the  several  pauses  of  discourse, 
but  should  be  smartly  separated  by  a  kind  of  echo  ;  as, 

I  took  down  ray  hat-t,  and  put  it  upon  my  head-a7. 

5.  Unaccented  Syllables  should  be  pronounced  as  dis- 
tinctly as  those  which  are  accented :  they  should  merely 
have  less  force  of  voice  and  less  prolongation ;  as, 

The  thoughtless,  helpfess,  homeless  girl  did  not  resent  his 
rudeness  and  harshness. 

Yery  many  of  the  prevailing  faults  of  articulation  result 
from  a  neglect  of  these  rules,  especially  the  second,  the 
third,  and  the  last.  He  who  gives  a  full  and  definite  sound 
to  final  consonants  and  to  unaccented  vowels,  if  he  does  it 
without  stiffness  or  formality,  can  hardly  fail  to  articulate 
well. 

EXERCISE    IN    SYLLABICATION.1 

1.  Thirty  years  ago,  Marseilles2  lay  burning  in  the  sun,  one 
day.  A  blazing  sun,  upon  a  fierce  August  day,  was  no  greater 
rarity  in  Southern  France  then,  than  at  any  other  time,  before 
or  since.  Every  thing  in  Marseilles,  and  abou£  Marseilles,  had 
stared  at  the  fervid  sky,  and  been  stared  at  in  return,  until  a 
staring  habi£  had  become  universal  there. 

2.  Grangers  were  stared  out  of  countenance  by  staring  white 
houses,  staring  white  walls,  staring  white  streets,  staring  tracts 
of  aria7  road,  staring  hills  from  whic/i  verdure  was  burnt  away. 
The  only  things  to  be  seen  not  firedly  staring  and  glaring  were 
the  vines  drooping  under  their  load  of  grapes.  These  did  occa- 
sionally winfc  a  little,  as  the  hot  air  moved  their  faint  leaves. 

3.  There  was  no  wind  to  make  a  ?'ipple  on  the  foul  water 


i  Direction.— Students  will   give  formation   of  syllables    each   letter 

the  number  and  names  of  the  syl-  that  appears  in  Italics,  in  this  exer- 

lables,  in  words  of  more  than  one  cise,  is  designed  to  illustrate, 

syllable,  and  tell  what  rule  for  the  2  Marseilles,  (mar  salzO- 


EXERCISE    IN    SYLLABICATION.  39 

within  the  harbor,  or  on  the  beautiful  sea  without  The  line  of 
demarkation  between  the  two  colors,  blacfc  and  blue,  showed 
the  point  which  the  pure  sea  would  not  pass  ;  but  it  lay  as 
quiet  as  the  abominable  pool,  with  which  it  never  mixed.  Boate 
without  awni?i<7.5-  were  too  hot  to  touch  ;  ships  blistered  at  their 
mooring  ;  the  stones  of  the  quays  had  not  cooled  for  months. 

4.  The  universal  s'arc  made  the  eyes  ache.  Toward  the  dis- 
tant line  of  Italian  (ltal'yan)  coast,  indeed,  it  was  a  little  re* 
lieved  by  light  clouds  of  mist,  slowly  risi??£7  from  the  evaporation 
of  the  sea  ;  but  it  softened  nowhere  else.  Far  away  the  stari??<7 
roads,  dee})  in  dust,  stared  from  the  hillside,  stared  from  the 
hollow,  stared  from  the  interminable  plain. 

5.  Far  away  the  dusty  vines  overhanging  wayside  cottages, 
and  the  monotonous  wayside  avenues  of  parched  frees  without 
shade,  drooped  beneath  the  stare  of  earth  and  sky.  So  did  the 
horses  with  drowsy  bells,  in  long  files  of  carts,  creepi??^  slowly 
toward  the  interior  ;  so  did  their  recumbent  drivers,  when  they 
were  ttwa&e,  which  rarely  happened;  so  did  the  exhausted 
laborers  in  the  fields. 

G.  Every  thing  that  fived  or  <7?*ew  was  oppressed  by  the  glare; 
except  the  lizard,  passing  swiftly  over  rough  stone  walls,  and 
the  cicada,  chirping  his  dry  hot  chirp,  like  a  ratde.  The  very 
dust  wTas  scorched  ftrown,  and  somethi??^  quivered  in  the  atmos- 
phere as  if  the  air  itself  were  -panting.  Blinds,  shutters,  cur- 
tains, awnings,  were  all  closed  to  keep  out  the  stare.  Grant  it 
but  a  chin/.:  or  keyhole,  and  it  shot  in  like  a  white-hot  arrow. 

7.  The  churches  were  freest  from  it.  To  come  out  of  the 
twilight  of  pillars  and  arches — dreamily  dotted  with  winking! 
lamps,  dream?ly  peopled  with  ugly  old  shadows  piously  dozing, 
spitting,  and  begging — was  to  plunge  into  a  fiery  river,  and 
swim  for  life  to  the  nearest  strip  of  shade.  So,  with  people 
lounging  and  lying  wherever  shade  was,  with  but  little  hum  of 
tongues  or  barki?2#  of  dogs,  with  occasional  jangli??^  of  discor- 
dant church  bells,  and  rattling  of  vicious  drums,  Marseilles,  a  iact 
Jo  be  strongly  smelt  and  tasted,  lay  broiling  in  the  sun  one  day. 

3.    Shall  I  be  left,  forgotten  in  the  dust, 

When  Fata,  relenting,  lets  the  flowe?*  revii-e? 
Shall  Nature's  voice,  to  Man  alone  tinjusf, 

Bid  him,  though  doomed  to  peris/i,  hope  to  hue  ? 


40  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 


III.    ACCENT. 
I. 

DEFINITIONS. 

ACCENT  is  the  peculiar  force  given  to  one  or  more 
syllables  of  a  word. 

2.  In  many  trisyllables  and  polysyllables,  of  two  sylla- 
bles accented,  one  is  uttered  with  greater  force  than  the 
other.  The  more  forcible  accent  is  called  primary,  and  the 
less  forcible,  secondary  ;  as,  hab-i-TA-tioii. 

3.  The  mark  of  acute  accent  [ '  ]  is  employed,  first,  to  in- 
dicate primary  accent ;  secondly,  the  rising  inflection  (p.  53) ; 
as, 

Reading,  or  read'ing.  If  thine  enemy  hunger,  give  him 
bread. 

4.  The  mark  of  grave  accent  [  *  ]  is  employed,  first ,  to  in- 
dicate secondary  accent ;  secondly,  that  the  vowel  over 
which  it  is  placed,  with  its  attendant  consonant,  forms  a 
separate  syllable  ;  thirdly,  that  the  vowel  in  the  unaccented 
syllable  is  not  an  alphabetic  equivalent,  but  represents  one 
of  its  usual  oral  elements ;  and  fourthly,  the  falling  inflec- 
tion (p.  53) ;  as, 

Magnificent,  or  magnificent.  A  learned  man  caught  that 
winged  thing.  Her  goodness  moved  the  roughest.  Away, 
thou  coward ! 

The  student  will  be  required  to  give  the  office  of  each 
mark  in  the  following 

EXERCISES    IN    ACCENT. 

1.  The  lone'ly  hunt'er  calls  his  bound'ing  dogs,  and  seeks 
the  high'way. 

2.  Hark  !  the  whirl'wind  is  in  the  forest :  aged  trees  are 
oVerturncd'. 

3.  Veracity  first  of  all,  and  forever. 

4.  The  finest  wits  have  their  sediment. 

5.  Hunting  men,  not  beasts,  shall  be  his  game. 


WORDS  CHANGED  BY  ACCENT.  41 

6.  A  foci  with  judges  ;  among  fools,  a  judge. 

7.  "Will  the  heedlessness  of  honest  students  offend'  their 
truest  friends  ? 

8.  Honest  students  learn  the  greatness  of  humility. 

9.  That  blessed  and  beloved  child  loves  every  winged  thing. 

10.  The  agree'ablo  ar'tisan*  made  an  ad'niirable  par'asoP  for 
that  beau'tiful  Russian  (rush'an)  la'dy. 

11.  No'tice  the  mark 3  of  ac'cent,  and  al'ways  accent'  correct 'ly 
words  that  should  have  but  one  ac'cent,  as  in  scn'sible,  vaga'ry, 
cir'cumslances,  difficulty,  interesting,  &c. 

12.  Costume,  manners,  riches,  civilization,  have  no  permanent 
interest  for  him. — His  heedlessness  offends  his  truest  friends. 

13.  In  a  crowded  life,  on  a  stage  of  nations,  or  in  the  ob- 
scurest hamlet,  the  same  blessed  elements  offer  the  same  rich 
choices  to  each  new  comer. 

n. 

WORDS    DISTINGUISHED    BY    ACCENT. 

MANY  words,  or  parts  of  speech,  having  the  same 
form,  are  distinguished  by  accent  alone.  Nouns  and 
adjectives  are  often  thus  distinguished  from  verbs,  and,  in 
a  few  dissyllables,  from  each  other. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  Why  does  your  ab'scnt  friend  absent'  himself.  ? 

2.  Did  he  abstract'  an  ab'slract  of  your  speech  from  the  desk? 

3.  Note  the  mark  of  ac'cent,  and  accent'  the  right  syllable. 

4.  Buy  some  cem'ent  and  cement'  the  glass. 

5.  Desert'  us  not  in  the  clcs'ert. 

6.  If  that  proj'ect  fail,  he  will  project'  another. 

7.  My  in' crease  is  taken  to  increase'  your  wealth. 

8.  Perfume'  the  room  with  rich  per'fume. 

9.  If  they  reprimand'  that  officer,  he  will  not  regard  their 
rep'rimand. 

10.  If  they  rebel',  and  overthrow'  the  government,  even  the 
reb'eh  can  not  justify  the  o'verthrow. 

11.  In  Au'gust,  the  august'  writer  entered  into  a  ccm'paet  to 
prepare  a  compact'  discourse. 


42  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

12.  In'stinct,  not  reason,  rendered  the  herd  instinct'  with  spirit. 

13.  Within  a  min'ute  from  this  time,  I  will  find  a  minute' 
piece  of  gold. 

14.  Earnest  prayer  is  an  in' cense  that  can  never  incense'  Deity. 

15.  While  you  con  verse'  with  each  other,  I  hold  con' verse  with 
nature. 

16.  If  they  continue  to  progress'  in  learning,  he  will  com- 
mend them  for  their  jirog'ress. 

17.  If  Congress  interdict'  intercourse  with  foreign  nations, 
will  the  in'terdicO  be  just? 

18.  Unless  the  con' vert  be  zealous,  he  will  never  convict'  the 
con'vict  of  his  errors,  and  convert'  him. 

19.  If  the  pro'test  of  the  minority  be  not  respected,  they  will 
protest'  against  your  votes. 

20.  If  the  farmer  produce'  prod'uee  enough  for  his  family,  he 
will  not  transfer'  his  title  to  that  estate,  though  the  trans'fer  is 
legal. 

ILL 
ACCENT    CHANGED    BY    CONTRAST. 

THE  ordinary  accent  of  words  is  sometimes  changed 
by  a  contrast  in  sense,  or  to  express  opposition  of 
thought. 

EXAMPLES. 

1.  He  must  tVcrease,  but  I  must  tfe'erease. 

2.  He  did  not  say  a  new  addition,  but  a  new  e'dition. 

3.  Consider  well  what  you  have  done,  and  what  you  have  left 
im'done. 

4.  I  said  that  she  will  sws'pect  the  truth  of  the  story,  not  that 
she  will  expect  it. 

5.  He  that  descended  is  also  the  same  that  fls'ccnded. 

G.  This  corruptible  must  put  on  i?i'eorruption  ;  and  this  mor- 
tal must  put  on  zm'mortality. 

7-  There  are  also  ce'lestial  bodies,  and  bodies  fcr'restrial ; 
but  the  glory  of  the  ce'lestial  is  one,  and  the  glory  of  the 
ter'restrial  is  another. 


EXPRESSION.  43 


EXPRESSION. 

EXPRESSION  of  Speech  is  the  utterance  of  thought, 
feeling,  or  passion,  with  clue  significance  or  force. 
Its  general  divisions  are  Emphasis,  Slur,  Inflection,  Mod- 
ulation, Monotone,  Personation,  and  Pauses. 

Orthoepy  is  the  mechanical  part  of  elocution,  consisting  in 
the  discipline  and  use  of  the  organs  of  speech  and  the  voice 
for  the  production  of  the  alphabetic  elements  and  their  combi- 
nation into  separate  words.  It  is  the  basis — the  subsoil,  which, 
by  the  mere  force  of  will  and  patient  practice,  may  be  broken 
and  turned  up  to  the  sun,  and  from  which  spring  the  flowers 
of  expression. 

Expression  is  the  soul  of  elocution.  By  its  ever-varying  and 
delicate  combinations,  and  its  magic  and  irresistible  power,  it 
wills — and  the  listless  ear  stoops  with  expectation  ;  the  vacant 
eye  burns  with  unwonted  fire  ;  the  dormant  passions  are 
aroused,  and  all  the  tender  and  powerful  sympathies  of  the 
soul  arc  called  into  vigorous  exercise. 


I.     EMPHASIS. 
I. 

DEFINITIONS. 

EMPHASIS  is  the  peculiar  force  given  to  one  or  more 
words  of  a  sentence. 

2.  To  give  a  word  emphasis,  means  to  pronounce  it  in  a 
loud '  or  forcible  manner.  No  uncommon  tone,  however,  is 
necessary,  as  words  may  be  made  emphatic  by  prolonging 
the  vowel  sounds,  by  a  pause,  or  even  by  a  wlris2:)er- 

3.  Emphatic  words  are  often  printed  in  Holies ;  those 
more  emphatic,  in  small  capitals  ;  and  those  that  receive 
the  greatest  force,  in  large  CAPITALS. 

1  Loudness.— The  instructor  will  ence  to  high  pitch,  but  to  volume  of 
explain  to  the  class  the  fact,  that  voice,  vscd  on  the  same  hey  or  pitch, 
loudness  has  not,  of  necessity,  refer-     when  reading  or  epeaking. 


44  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

4.  By  the  proper  use  of  emphasis,  we  are  enabled  to  im- 
part animation  and  interest  to  conversation  and  reading. 
Its  importance  can  not  be  over-estimated,  as  the  meaning 
of  a  sentence  often  depends  upon  the  proper  placing  of  the 
emphasis.  If  readers  have  a  desire  to  produce  an  impres- 
sion on  hearers,  and  read  what  they  understand  and  feel, 
they  will  generally  place  emphasis  on  the  right  words. 
Students,  however,  should  be  required  to  observe  carefully 
the  following  rules. 

n. 

EULES    IN    EMPHASIS. 

"TTTORDS  AND    PHRASES   PECULIARLY   SIGNIFICANT,    or  im- 

V  V      portant  in  meaning,  are  emphatic  ;  as, 
Whence  and  ickat  art  thou,  execrable  shape  ? 

2.  Words  and  phrases  that  contrast,  or  point  out  a 
difference,  are  emphatic  ;  as, 

I  did  not  say  a  better  soldier,  but  an  elder. 

3.  The  repetition  of  an  emphatic  word  or  phrase  usually 
requires  an  increased  force  of  utterance  ;  as, 

You  injured  my  child — you,  sir! 

4.  A  succession  of  important  words  or  phrases  usually 
requires  a  gradual  increase  of  emphatic  force,  though  em- 
phasis sometimes  falls  on  the  last  word  of  a  series  only ;  as, 

His  disappointment,  his  anguish,  his  DEATH,  were  caused  by 
your  carelessness. 

These  misfortunes  are  the  same  to  the  poor,  the  ignorant, 
and  the  weak,  as  to  the  rich,  the  wise,  and  the  jJOicaful. 

The  students  will  tell  which  of  the  preceding  rules  are 
illustrated  by  the  following  exercises — both  those  that  are 
marked  and  those  that  are  unmarked. 

EXERCISES    IN    EMPHASIS. 

1.  Boisterous  in  speech,  in  action  prompt  and  bold.  * 

2.  Speak  little  and  well,  if  you  wish  to  be  considered  as  pos- 
sessing merit. 

3.  He  buys,  he  sells, — he  steals,  he  KILLS  for  gold. 


EXERCISES    IN    EMPHASIS.  45 

4.  But  here  I  stand  for  right,  for  Roman  right. 

5.  I  shall  know  but  one  country.  I  was  born  an  American  ;  I 
live  an  American  ;  I  shall  die  an  American. 

6.  I  shall  sing  the  praises  of  October,  as  the  loveliest  of  months. 

7.  A  good  man  loves  himself  too  well  to  lose  an  estate  by 
gaming,  and  his  neighbor  too  well  to  win  one. 

8.  The  good  man  is  honored,  but  the  evil  man  is  despised. 

9.  The  young  are  slaves  to  novelty  :  the  old,  to  custom  :  the 
middle-aged,  to  both  :  the  dead,  to  neither. 

10.  The  wicked  flee  when  no  man  pursueth  ;  but  the  righteous 
are  bold  as  a  lion. 

11.  Tlieycome!  to  arms !  to  arms!   TO  ARMS! 

12.  None  but  the  brave,  none  but  the  brave,  none  but  the 
BRAVE  deserve  the  fair. 

13.  A  day,  an  hour,  of  virtuous  liberty,  is  worth  a  whole 
ETERNITY  in  bondage. 

14.  It  is  my  living  sentiment,  and,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  it 
shall  be  my  dying  sentiment — independence  now,  and  independ- 
ence forever. 

15.  The  thunders  of  heaven  are  sometimes  heard  to  roll  in  the 
voice  of  a  united  people. 

16.  If  I  were  an  American,  as  I  am  an  Englishman,  while  a 
foreign  troop  remained  in  my  country,  I  never  would  lay  down 
my  arms — never,  never,  NEVER,1 

17.  Let  us  fight  for  our  country,  our  whole  country,  and 
NOTHING   BUT   OUR  COUNTRY. 

18.  He  that  trusts  you,  where  he  should  find  you  lions  finds 
you  hares  ;  where  foxes,  geese. 

19.   What  should  I  say  to  you  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
Hath  &  dog  money  ?  is  it  possible, 
A  cur  can  lend  three  thousand  duc'atsf 

20.  In  the  prosecution  of  a  virtuous  enterprise,  a  brave  man 
despises  danger  and  difficulty. 

21.  Was  that  country  a  desert?  No  :  it  was  cultivated  and 
fertile  ;  rich  and  populous  !  Its  sons  were  men  of  genius,  spirit, 
and  generosity !  Its  daughters  were  lovely,  suseejytible,  and 
(haste!     Friendshij)  was  its  inhabitant !     Love  was  its  inhabit- 

1  In  order  to  make  the  last  never  depression  of  the  voice, — almost  to  a 
more  forcible,  the  emphasis  is  pro-  deep  aspirated  whisper,  drawn  up 
duced  bv  the  falling  slide,  and  a  dce">     from  the  verv  bottom  of  the  chest 


46  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

ant!     Domestic  affection  was  its  inhabitant!     Liberty  was  its 
inhabitant ! 

22.  Son  of  night,  retire  ;  call  thy  winds  and  fly.  Why  dost 
thou  come  to  my  presence  with  thy  shadowy  arms  ?  Do  I  fear 
thy  gloomy  form,  dismal  spirit  of  Loda  ?  Weak  is  thy  shield 
of  clouds  ;  feeble  is  that  meteor,  thy  sword. 

23.  What  stronger  breastplate  than  a  heart  untainted! 
THRICE  is  he  armed  that  hath  his  quarrel  jest  ;  and  he  but 
naked,  though  locked  up  in  STEEL,  whose  conscience  with 
injustice  is  corrupted. 

24.  Speak  the  speech,  I  pray  you,  as  I  pronounce  it  to  you  : 
trippingly  on  the  tongue  ;  but  if  you  moitfh  it,  as  many  of  our 
players  do,  I  had  as  lief  the  town-crier  spake  my  lines.  Nor  do 
not  saw  the  air  too  much  with  your  hand  thus,  but  use  all  gently  ; 
for  in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and  (as  I  may  say)  whirlwind 
of  your  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a  temperance  that 
will  give  it  smoothness. 

25.  If  you  have  tears,  prepare  to  shed  them  now.  You  all 
do  know  this  mantle :  I  remember  the  first  time  ever  Csesar  put 
it  on  :  ('twas  on  a  summer's  evening  in  his  tent :  that  day  he 
overcame  the  Nervii :) — LOOK !  In  this  place  ran  Cassius'  dag- 
ger through  :  see  what  a  rent  the  envious  Casca  made.  Through 
this,  the  well-beloved  Brutus  stabbed  ;  and,  as  he  plucked  his 
cursed  steel  away,  mark  how  the  blood  of  Caesar  followed  it! 
This  was  the  most  unkindest  cut  of  all !  for,  when  the  noble 
Caesar  saw  HIM  stab,  INGRATITUDE,  more  strong  than 
traitors'  arms,  quite  vanquished  him !  Then  burst  his  mighty 
heart ;  and,  in  his  mantle  muffling  up  his  face,  even  at  the  base 
of  Pompey's  statue,  which  all  the  while  ran  blood,  great  C/ESar 
fell.  O  what  a  fall  was  there,  my  countrymen!  Then  I, 
and  you,  and  all  of  us,  fell  down  ;  whilst  bloody  TREASON 
flourished  over  us. 

26.  Oh,  now  you  weep  ;  and  I  perceive  you  feel  the  dint  of 
pity  :  these  are  gracious  drops.  Kind  soids  !  What,  weep  you 
when  you  but  behold  our  Caesar's  vesture  wounded  ?  Look  ye 
here  !     Here  is  himSELF,  marred,  as  you  see,  by  traitors. 

27.  As  Caesar  loved  me,  I  weep  for  him  :  as  he  was  fortunate, 
I  rejoice  at  it :  as  he  was  valiant,  I  honor  him  :  but  as  he  was 
ambitious,  I  slew  him.  There  is  tears  for  his  love,  joy  for  his 
fortune,  honor  for  his  valor,  and  death  for  his  ambition. 


SLUR.  47 


II.    SLUR. 

SLUR  is  that  smooth,  gliding,  subdued  movement  of 
the  voice,  by  which  those  parts  of  a  sentence  of  less 
comparative  importance  are  rendered  less  impressive  to  the 
ear,  and  emphatic  words  and  phrases  set  in  stronger  relief. 

2.  Emphatic  words,  or  the  words  that  express  the  lead- 
ing thoughts,  are  usually  pronounced  with  a  louder  and 
more  forcible  effort  of  the  voice,  and  are  often  prolonged, 
But  words  that  are  slurred  must  generally  be  read  in  a 
lower  and  less  forcible  tone  of  voice,  more  rapidly,  and  all 
pronounced  nearly  alike. 

3.  In  order  to  communicate  clearly  and  forcibly  the 
whole  signification  of  a  passage,  it  must  be  subjected  to  a 
rigid  analysis.  It  will  then  be  found,  that  one  paramount 
ide'a  always  pervades  the  sentence,  although  it  may  be  as- 
sociated with  incidental  statements,  and  qualified  in  every 
possible  manner.  Hence,  on  the  proper  management  of 
slur,  much  of  the  beauty  and  propriety  of  enunciation  de- 
pends, as  thus  the  reader  is  enabled  to  bring  forward  the 
primary  idea,  or  more  important  parts,  into  a  strong  light, 
and  throw  other  portions  into  shade  ;  thereby  entirely 
changing  the  character  of  the  sentence,  and  making  it 
appear  lucid,  strong,  and  expressive. 

4.  Slur  must  be  employed  in  cases  of  parenthesis,  contrast, 
repetition,  or  explanation,  where  the  phrase  or  sentence  is  of 
small  comparative  importance  ;  and  often  when  qualification 
of  time,  place,  or  manner  is  made. 

5.  The  parts  which  are  to  be  slurred  in  a  portion  of  the 
exercises  are  printed  in  Italic  letters.  Students  will  first  read 
the  parts  of  the  sentence  that  appear  in  Roman,  and  then 
the  whole  sentence,  passing  lightly  and  quickly  over  what 
was  first  omitted.  The}  will  also  read  the  examples  that 
are  unmarked  in  like  manner. 

EXERCISES    IN    SLUR. 

1.  The  rich,  softened  by  prosperUyt  pitied  the  poor  ;  the  poor, 
disciplined  into  order,  respected  the  rich. 


48  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  The  general,  with  his  head  drooping,  and  his  hands  lean- 
ing on  his  horse's  neck,  moved  feebly  out  of  the  battle. 

3.  The  rivulet  sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and,  tripping  o'er  its 
bed  of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks,  seems  with  contin- 
uous laughter  to  rejoice  in  its  own  being. 

4.  We  wish  that  this  column,  rising  toward  heaven  among 
the  pointed  spires  of  so  many  temples  dedicated  to  God,  may 
contribute  also  to  produce,  in  all  minds,  a  pious  feeling  of  de- 
pendence and  gratitude. 

5.  I  had  always  thought  that  I  could  meet  death  without  a 
murmur  ;  but  I  did  not  knowr,  she  said,  with  a  faint  voice,  her 
lips  quivering,  I  did  not  know7,  till  now,  how  hard  a  thing  it 
would  be  to  leave  my  child. 

6.  The  calm  shade  shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet 
breeze,  that  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm  to 
thy  sick  heart. 

7.  The  stomach  (cramm'd  from  every  dish,  a  tomb  of  boiled 
and  roast,  and  flesh  and  fish,  where  bile,  and  wrind,  and  phlegm, 
and  acid  jar,  and  all  the  man  is  one  intestine  war)  remembers 
oft  the  school-boy's  simple  fare,  the  temperate  sleeps,  and  spirits 
light  as  air. 

8.  Ingen'ious  boys,  icho  are  idle,  think,  with  the  hare  in  the 
fable,  that,  running  icith  SNAILS  (so  they  count  the  rest  of  their 
school-fellows),  they  shall  come  soon  enough  to  the  post  ; 
though  sleeping  a  good  ivhile  before  their  starting. 

9.  I  heard  a  man  who  had  failed  in  business,  and  whose 
furniture  was  sold  at  auction,  say  that,  when  the  cradle,  and  the 
crib,  and  the  piano  went,  tears  would  come,  and  he  had  to 
leave  the  house  to  be  a  man. 

10.  The  soul  of  eloquence  is  the  center  of  the  human  soul 
itself,  which,  enlightened  by  the  rays  of  an  idea,  or  warmed  and 
stirred  by  an  impression,  flashes  or  bursts  forth  to  manifest,  by 
some  sign  or  other,  wrhat  it  feels  or  sees. 

11.  Can  he,  who,  not  satisfied  with  the  wide  range  of  ani- 
mated existence,  calls  for  the  sympathy  of  the  inanimate  crea- 
tion, refuse  to  worship  with  his  fellowT-men  ? 

12.  Why  does  the  very  murderer,  his  victim  sleeping  before  him, 
and  his  glaring  eye  taking  the  measure  of  the  blow,  strike  wide 
of  the  mortal  part  ?     Because — of  conscience  ! 

13.  The   massy  rocks   themselves,  the   old   and  ponderous 


EXERCISES    IN    SLUR.  4'J 

trunks  of  prostrate  trees,  that  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll,  a  cause- 
way rude,  or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots 
with  all  their  earth  upon  thcin,  twisting  high,  breathe  fixed 
tranquillity. 

14.  "But  now,"  whispered  the  clear  girl,  "it  is  evening;  the 
sun,  that  rejoices,  has  finished  his  daily  toil ;  man,  that  labors, 
has  finished  his  ;  I,  that  suffer,  have  finished  mine."  Just 
then,  her  dull  ear  caught  a  sound.  It  was  the  sound,  though 
muffled  and  deadened,  like  the  ear  thai  heard  it,  of  horsemen 
advancing. 

15.  Here  we  have  butter  pure  as  virgin  gold  ; 
And  milk  from  cows  that  can  a  tail  unfold 

With  bovine  pride  ;  and  new-laid  eggs,  whose  praise 
Is  sung  by  pullets  with  their  morning  lays  ; 
Trout  from  the  brook  ;  good  water  from  the  well ; 
And  other  blessings  more  than  I  can  tell ! 

1G.  I  love  Music,  when  she  appeal's  m  her  virgin  purity,  almost 
to  adoration.  But  vocal  music — the  dearest,  sweetest  thing  on 
earth — unaccompanied  icith  good  elocution,  is  like  butter  without 
salt ;  a  garlic-eater  with  a  perfumed  handkerchief  ;  or,  rather, 
like  a  bankrupt  beau — his  soft  hands  incased  in  delicate  kids — 
with  soiled  linen,  and  patches  upon  his  knees. 

17.  A  Frenchman  once — so  runs  a  certain  ditty — 
Had  crossed  the  Straits  to  famous  London  city, 
To  get  a  living  by  the  arts  of  France, 

And  teach  his  neighbor,  rough  John  Bull,  to  dance. 

But  lacking  pupils,  vain  was  all  his  skill ; 

His  fortunes  sank  from  low  to  lower  still, 

Until  at  last,  pathetic  to  relate, 

Poor  Monsieur  landed  at  starvation's  gate. 

18.  No !  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's  just  estimation 
prized  above  all  price,  I  would  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave, 
and  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  niM. 

19.  There  is  an  ugly  kind  of  forgiveness  in  this  world— a 
kind  of  hedge-hog  forgiveness,  shot  out  like  quills.  Men  take 
one  who  has  offended,  and  set  him  down  before  the  blow-pipe 
of  their  indignation,  and  scorch  him,  and  burn  his  faults  into 
him  ;  and,  when  they  have  kneaded  him  sufficiently  with  their 
fiery  fists,  then— they  forgive  him, 


50  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

20.  Ye  glittering  towns,  with  xceallh  and  splendor  crowned  ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round  ; 

Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale  ; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale  ; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine  : 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine ! 

21.  If  there's  a  Power  above  us — and  that  there  is,  all  Nature 
cries  aloud  through  all  her  works — He  must  delight  in  -virtue  ; 
and  that  which  He  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

22.  "Who  had  not  heard 

Of  Rose,  the  gardener's  daughter  ?    "Where  was  he, 
So  blunt  in  memory,  so  old  at  heart, 
At  such  a  distance  from  his  youth  in  grief, 
That,  having  seen,  forgot  ?     The  common  mouth, 
So  gross  to  express  delight,  in  praise  of  her 
•     Grew  oratory.     Such  a  lord  is  Love, 
And  Beauty  such  a  mistress  of  the  wTorld. 

23.  The  devout  heart,  penetrated  with  large  and  affecting  views 
of  the  immensity  of  the  twrks  of  God,  the  harmony  of  his  laivs, 
and  the  extent  of  his  beneficence,  bursts  into  loud  and  vocal  ex- 
pressions of  praise  and  adoration  ;  and,  from  a  full  and  over- 
flowing sensibility,  seeks  to  expand  itself  to  the  utmost  limits  of 
creation. 

24.  I  said,  "  Though  I  should  die,  I  know 
That  all  about  the  thorn  will  blow 

In  tufts  of  rosy-tinted  snow  ; 
And  men,  through  novel  spheres  of  thought 
Still  moving  after  truth  long  sought, 
"Will  learn  new  things  when  I  am  not." 

25.  O  "WINTER!  ruler  of  the  inverted  year.'  thy  scat- 
tered hair  with  sleet-like  ashes  filled,  thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy 
lips,  thy  cheeks  fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapped  in  clouds,  a  leafless  branch 
thy  scepter,  and  thy  throne  a  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels,  but 
urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way,  I  LOVE  THEE,  all 
unlovely  as  thou  scem'st,  and  dreaded  as  thou  art. 

26.  They  shall  hear  my  vengeance,  that  would  scorn  to  listen 
to  the  story  of  my  wrongs.  The  miserable  Highland  drover, 
bankrupt,  barefooted,  stripped  of  all,  dishonored,  and  hunted  down, 


EXERCISES    IN    SLUR.  51 

because  the  avarice  of  others  grasped  at  more  than  that  poor  all 
could  pay,  shall  burst  on  them  in  an  awful  change. 

27.  Think 
Of  the  bright  lands  within  the  western  maw, 
Where  we  will  build  our  home,  ichat  time  the  seas 
Weary  thy  gaze ; — there  the  broad  palm-tree  shades 
The  soft  and  delicate  light  of  skies  as  fair 

As  those  that  slept  on  Eden  ; — Nature,  there, 
Like  a  gay  spendthrift  in  his  flush  of  youth, 
Flings  her  whole  treasure  in  the  lap  of  Time. — 
On  turfs,  by  fairies  trod,  the  Eternal  Flora 
Spreads  all  her  blooms  ;  and  from  a  lake-lite  sea 
Wooes  to  her  odorous  haunts  the  western  wind ! 
While,  circling  round  and  upward  from  the  boughsy 
Golden  with  fruits  that  lure  the  joyous  birds, 
Melody,  like  a  happy  soul  released, 
Hangs  in  the  air,  and  from  invisible  plumes 
Shakes  sweetness  down ! 

28.  Lo!  the  unlettered  hind,  who  never  knew  to  raise  his 
mind  excursive  to  the  heights  of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he 
sits  on  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side,  what  time  the 
insect  swarms  are  murmuring,  and  marks,  in  silent  thought, 
the  broken  clouds,  that  fringe  with  loveliest  hues  the  evening 
sky,  feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  nature  rouse  the  thrill  of  grat- 
itude to  Him  who  formed  the  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the 
god  throned  in  the  west ;  and  his  reposing  ear  hears  sounds 
angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze,  that  floats  through  neighboring 
copse  or  fairy  brake,  or  lingers,  playful,  on  the  haunted  stream. 

29.  Beauty — a  living  presence  of  the  earth, 
Surpassing  the  most  fair  ideal  forms 
Which  craft  of  delicate  spirits  hath  composed 
From  earth's  materials — waits  upon  my  steps  ; 
Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I  move, 
An  hourly  neighbor.     Paradise,  and  groves 
Elysian,  Fortunate  Fields — like  those  of  old 
Sought  in  the  Atlantic  main — why  should  they  be 
A  history  only  of  departed  things, 
Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was  ? 
For  the  discerning  intellect  of  man, 


52  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 

In  love  and  holy  passion,  should  find  these 

A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 

30.  Dear  Brothers,  who  sit  at  this  bountiful  board, 
With  excellent  viands  so  lavishly  stored, 
That,  in  newspaper  phrase,  't  would  undoubtedly  groan, 
If  groaning  were  but  a  convivial  tone, 
Which  it  isn't — and  therefore,  by  sympathy  led, 
The  table,  no  doubt,  is  rejoicing  instead  ; 
Dear  Brothers,  I  rise, — and  it  won't  be  surprising 
If  you  find  me,  like  bread,  all  the  better  for  rising, — 
I  rise  to  express  my  exceeding  delight 
In  our  cordial  reunion  this  glorious  night ! 


III.     INFLECTIONS. 

I 

DEFINITIONS. 

INFLECTIONS  are  the  bends  or  slides  of  the  voice, 
used  in  reading  and  speaking. 

Inflection,  or  the  slide,  is  one  of  the  most  important  divisions 
of  elocution,  because  all  speech  is  made  up  of  slides,  and  be- 
cause the  right  or  wrong  formation  of  these  gives  a  pervading 
character  to  the  whole  delivery.  It  is  to  the  graceful  forma- 
tion of  the  slides  that  we  are  chiefly  indebted  for  that  easy  and 
refined  utterance  which  prevails  in  polished  society  ;  while  the 
coarse  and  rustic  tones  of  the  vulgar  are  commonly  owing  to 
some  early  and  erroneous  habit  in  this  respect.  Most  of  the 
schoolboy  faults  in  delivery,  such  as  drawling,  whining,  and  a 
monotonous  singing  sound,  result  from  a  wrong  formation  of 
the  slide,  and  may  be  corrected  by  a  proper  course  of  practice 
on  this  element  of  speech. 

A  slide  consists  of  two  parts,  viz.  :  the  radical,  or  opening 
sound,  and  the  vanish,  or  gradual  diminution  of  force,  until  the 
sound  is  lost  in  silence.  Three  things  are  necessary  to  the  per- 
fect formation  of  a  slide. 

1st.  The  opening  sound  must  be  struck  with  a  full  and  lively 
impulse  of  voice. 


INFLECTIONS.  53 

2d.  The  diminution  of  force  must  be  regular  and  equable — 
not  more  rapid  in  one  part  than  another,  but  naturally  and 
gracefully  declining  to  the  last. 

3d.  The  hnal  vanish  must  be  delicately  formed,  without  being 
abrupt  on  the  one  hand,  or  too  much  prolonged  on  the  other. 

This,  a  full  opening,  a  gradual  decrease,  and  a  delicate  termi- 
nation, are  requisite  to  the  perfect  formation  of  a  slide. 

2.  There  are  three  inflections  or  slides  of  the  voice  :  the 
Rising  Inflection,  the  Falling  Inflection,  and  the  Cir- 
cumflex. 

3.  The  Rising  Inflection  is  the  upward  bend  cr  slide 
of  the  voice  ;  as, 

Do  you  love  your  \^oX^ 

4.  The  Falling  Inflection  is  the  downward  bend  or 
slide  of  the  voice  ;  as, 

When  are  you  going      °^e  ? 

The  rising  inflection  carries  the  voice  upward  from  the  gen- 
eral pitch,  and  suspends  it  on  the  highest  tone  required  ;  while 
the  falling  inflection  commences  above  the  general  pilch,  and 
falls  down  to  it,  as  indicated  in  the  last  two  examples. 

5.  The  Circumflex  is  the  union  of  the  inflections  on  the 
same  syllable  or  word,  either  commencing  with  the  rising 
and  ending  with  the  falling,  or  commencing  with  the  falling 
and  ending  with  the  rising,  thus  producing  a  slight  wave 
of  the  voice. 

6.  The  acuto  accent  [ '  ]  is  often  used  to  mark  the  rising 
inflection;  the  grave  accent  [v]  the  falling  inflection;  as, 

Will  you  read  or  spell  ? 

Let  the  students  pronounce  the  following  words  wifli 
contrasted  inflections,  using  great  pains  to  form  the  slides 
in  accordance  with  the  joreceding  directions : 

1.  Call,  call  ;  far,  far  ;  fame,  fame  ;  shame,  shame  ;  air,  air ; 
scene,  scene  ;  mile,  mile  ;  pile,  pile. 

2.  Roam,  roam  ;  tool,  tool  ;  school,  school ;  pure,  piire  ; 
mule,  mule  ;  join,  join  ;  our,  our. 

7.  When  the  circumflex  commences  with  a  rising  and  ends 
with  a  falling  slide  of  the  voice,  it  is  marked  thus  '  s ;  but 


54  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

when  it  commences  with  a  falling  and  ends  with  a  rising 
slide,  it  is  marked  thus  w,  which  the  pupil  will  see  is  the 
same  mark  inverted ;  as, 

You  must  take  me  for  a  fool,  to  think  I  could  do  that. 

8.  The  inflections  or  slides  should  be  used  on  the  ac- 
cented syllables  of  important  or  emphatic  words ;  as, 
I  will  never  stay.     I  said  goodly  not  homely, 

n. 

RULES    IN    INFLECTIONS. 

DIRECT  QUESTIONS,  or  those  that  can  be  answered 
by  yes  or  no,  usually  require  the  rising  inflection ;  but 
their  answers,  the  falling  ;  as, 

Has  any  one  sailed  around  the  earth  ?     Yes,  Captain  Cook. 

Exceptions. — The  falling  inflection  is  required  when  the 
direct  question  becomes  an  earnest  appeal,  and  the  answer 
is  anticipated ;  and  when  a  direct  question,  not  at  first  un- 
derstood, is  repeated  with  marked  emphasis ;  as, 

Will  her  love  survive  your  neglect  ?  and  may  not  you  expect 
the  sneers,  both  of  your  wife,  and  of  her  parents  ? 

Do  you  reside  in  the  city  ?  What  did  you  say,  sir  ?  Do  you 
reside  in  the  city  ? 

2.  Indirect  questions,  or  those  that  can  not  be  answered 
by  yes  or  no,  usually  require  the  falling  inflection,  and  their 
answers  the  same ;  as, 

Who  said,  "  A  wise  man  is  never  less  alone  than  when  he  is 
alone  ?"     Swift. 

Exceptions. — The  rising  inflection  is  required  when  an 
indirect  question  is  used  to  ask  a  repetition  of  what  was 
not  at  first  understood  ;  and  when  the  ansivers  to  questions, 
whether  direct  or  indirect,  are  given  in  an  indifferent  or 
careless  manner ;  as, 

Where  did  you  say  ?    Shall  I  tell  your  enemy  ?    As  you  please ! 

3.  Questions,  words,  and  clauses,  connected  by  the 
disjunctive  OR,  usually  require  the  rising  inflection  before, 
and  the  falling  after  it;  though,  when  or  is  used  con- 


RULES    IN    INFLECTIONS.  55 

junctivehj,  it  takes  the  rising  inflection  after,  as  well  as 
before  it ;  as, 

Does  lie  deservo  praise,  or  blame  ?  Can  youth,  or  health,  or 
strength,  or  honor,  or  pleasure,  satisfy  the  soul  ? 

4  When  words  or  clauses  are  contrasted  or  com- 
pared, the  first  part  usually  has  the  rising,  and  the  last  the 
falling  inflection  ;  though,  when  one  side  of  the  contrast  is 
affirmed,  and  the  other  denied,  generally  the  latter  has  the 
rising  inflection,  in  whatever  order  they  occur  ;  as, 

I  have  seen  the  effects  of  love  and  hatred,  joy  and  grief,  hope 
and  despair.  This  book  is  not  mine,  but  fours.  I  come  to  bury 
Caesar,  not  to  praise  him. 

5.  Familiar  address,  and  the  pause  of  suspension,  denot- 
ing condition,  supposition,  or  incompleteness,  usually  re- 
quire the  rising  inflection ;  as, 

Friends,  I  come  not  here  to  talk.  If  thine  enemy  hunger, 
give  him  bread  to  eat. 

6.  The  language  of  concession,  politeness,  admiration, 
entreaty,  and  tender  emotions,  usually  requires  the  rising 
inflection ;  as, 

Your  remark  ifc  true  :  the  manners  of  this  country  have  not 
all  the  desirable  ease  and  freedom. 

I  pray  thee  remember,  I  have  done  thee  worthy  service  ;  told 
thee  no  lies,  made  no  mistakes  ;  served  without  grudge  or 
grumbling. 

7.  The  end  of  a  sentence  that  expresses  completeness, 
conclusion,  or  result,  usually  requires  the  falling  slide  of 
termination,  which  commences  on  the  general  pitch,  and 
falls  below  it ;  as, 

The  rose  is  beauti/^; 

8.  At  each  complete  termination  of  thought,  before 
the  close  of  a  sentence,  the  falling  inflection  is  usually  re- 
quired ;  though,  when  several  pauses  occur,  the  last  but 
one  generally  has  the  rising  inflection  ;  as, 

Every  human  being  has  the  idea  of  duty  ;  and  to  unfold  this 
idea  is  the  end  for  which  life  was  given  him. 

The  rock  crumbles  ;  the  trees  fall ;  the  leaves  fade,  and  the 
grass  withers. 


56  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

9.  The  language  of  command,  rebuke,  contempt,  excla- 
mation, and  terror,  usually  requires  the  falling  inflection  ;  as, 

Thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou  coward !    Away  from  my  sight ! 

10.  The  last  member  of  a  commencing  series,  and  the 
last  but  one  of  a  concluding  series,  usually  require  the  rising 
inflection ;  and  all  others  the  falling  ;  as, 

A  good  disposition,  virtuous  principles,  a  liberal  education, 
and  industrious  habit*,  are  passports  to  happiness  and  honor. 

These  reward  a  good  disposition,  virtuous  principles,  a  liberal 
education,  and  industrious  habits. 

11.  The  Circumflex  is  used  when  the  thoughts  employed 
are  not  sincere  or  earnest,  but  are  used  in  jest,  irony,  or 
double-meaning, — in  ridicule,  sarcasm,  or  mockery.  The 
circumflex  which  ends  with  the  rising  slide  should  be  given 
to  the  negative  ideas,  and  that  which  ends  with  the  falling 
slide  to  positive  ideas  ;  as, 

This  is  }Tour  plain  man,  if  not  your  gracious  one. 

Students  will  be  careful  to  employ  the  right  slides  in  sen- 
tences  that  are  unmarked,  and  tell  what  rule  or  rules  are 
illustrated  by  each  of  the  following 

EXERCISES    IN    INFLECTIONS. 

1.  Do  you  see  that  beautiful  star  ?     Yes  :  it  is  splendid ! 

2.  "Will  you  forsake  us  ?  and  will  you  favor  us  no  more  ? 

3.  I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better.     Did  I  say  better  ? 

4.  Are  you,  my  dear  sir,  willing  to  forgive  ? 

5.  "Why  is  the  hall  crowded  ?    "What  means  this  stir  in  town  ? 

6.  Does  that  beautiful  lady  deserve  praise,  or  blame  ? 

7.  Will  you  ride  in  the  carriage,  or  on  horseback  ?    Neither. 

8.  Hunting  men,  not  bea,<ts,  shall  be  his  game. 

9.  I  said  good,  not  bad  :  happy,  not  miserable. 

10.  O  Rome !  O  my  country !  how  art  thou  fallen ! 

11.  Do  men  gather  grapes  from  thorns,  or  figs  from  thistles  ? 

12.  Is  a  candle  to  be  put  under  a  bushel,  or  under  a  bed? 

13.  Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 


EXERCISES    IN    INFLECTIONS.  57 

14.  Fire  and  water,  oil  and  vinegar,  heat  and  cold,  light  and 
darkness,  are  not  more  opposed  to  each  other,  than  is  honesty 
to  fraud,  or  vice  to  virtue. 

15.  Is  this  a  time  to  be  gloomy  and  sad 

"When  our  mother  Nature  laughs  around  ; 
"When  even  the  deep  blue  heavens  look  glad, 

And  gladness  breathes  from  the  blossoming  ground  ? 

16.  Can  the  great  statesman,  skilled  in  deep  design, 

Protract  but  for  a  day  precarious  breath  ? — 
Can  the  tuned  follower  of  the  sacred  Nine 
Soothe,  with  his  melody,  insatiate  Death  ? 

17.  Hath  a  dog  money?  Is  it  possible  a  cur  can  lend  three 
thousand  ducats? 

18.  All  the  circumstances  and  ages  of  men,  poverty,  riches, 
youth,  old  age — all  the  dispositions  and  passions,  melancholy, 
love,  grief,  contentment — are  capable  of  being  personified  in 
poetry  with  great  propriety. 

19.  If  thou  dost  slander  her,  and  torture  me — never  pbay 

MORE. 

20.  But,  whatever  may  be  our  fate,  be  assured,  be  assured 
that  this  declaration  will  stand.  It  may  cost  treasure,  and  it 
may  cost  blood  ;  but  it  will  stand,  and  it  will  richly  compensate 
for  both. 

21.  The  war  must  go  on.  "We  must  fight  it  through.  And 
if  the  war  must  go  on,  why  put  off  longer  the  declaration  of 
independence  ?  That  measure  will  strengthen  us.  It  will  give 
us  character  abroad. 

22.  They  boast  they  come  but  to  improve  our  state,  enlarge 
our  thoughts,  and  free  us  from  the  yoke  of  error !  Yes,  they 
will  give  enlightened  freedom  to  our  minds,  who  are  themselves 
the  slaves  of  passion,  avarice,  and  pride !  They  offer  us  pro- 
tection !  yes,  such  protection  as  vultures  give  to  lambs — cover- 
ing and  devouring  them !    Tell  your  invaders  we  seek  no  change 

— and  least  of  all  such  change  as  they  would  bring  us ! 

23.  Are  fleets  and  armies  necessary  to  a  work  of  love  and 
reconciliation  ?  Have  we  shown  ourselves  so  unwilling  to  be 
reconciled,  that  force  must  be  called  in  to  win  back  our  love? 


58  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

.  $1  And  this  man 

Is  now  become  a  god  ;  and  Cassins  is 
A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body, 
If  Coesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 
lie  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 
And,  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 
How  he  did  shake  :  't  is  true,  this  god  did  shake  : 
His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly  ; 
And  that  same  eye,  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 
Pid  lose  its  lustre. 


IY.    MODULATION. 

M{  )DULATION  is  the  act  of  varying  the  voice  in  read* 
jng  and  speaking.     Its  general  divisions  are  Pitch, 
Force,  Quality,  and  Kate. 

The  four  general  divisions,  or  modes  of  vocal  sound,  pre- 
sented in  this  section,  are  properly  the  elements  of  expression  ; 
as,  by  the  combination  of  the  different  forms  and  varieties  of 
these  modes,  emphasis,  slur,  monotone,  and  other  divisions  of 
expression  are  produced. 

I. 

PITCH. 

PITCH1  refers  to  the  key-note  of  the  voice — its  general 
degree   of   elevation   or   depression,  in  reading  and 
speaking.     We  mark  three  general  distinctions  of  Pitch : 
High,  Moderate,  and  Low. 
2.  High  Pitch  is  that  which  is  heard  in  calling  to  a  per- 

1  Exercise  on  Pitch. — For  a  gen-  top  of   the   voice   shall   have  heen 

eral  exercise  on  pitch,  select  a  sen-  reached,  when  the  exercise  may  be 

tence,  and  deliver  it  on  as  low  a  key  reversed.     So  valuable  is  this  cxer- 

as  possible ;  then  repeat  it,  gradu-  rise,  that  it  should  be  repeated  as 

ally  elevating  the  pitch,  until  the  often  as  possible. 


MODULATION.  59 

son  at  a  distance.     It  is  used  in  expressing  elevated  and 
joyous  feelings  and  strong  emotion  ;  as, 

1.  Go  ring  the  bells,  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banners  out ; 
Shout  "  Freedom  !"  till  your  lisping  ones 
Give  back  their  cradle  shout. 

2.  Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again ! 
I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld, 

To  show  they  still  are  free.     Methinks  I  hear 

A  spirit  in  your  echoes  answer  me, 

And  bid  vour  tenant  welcome  to  his  home 

Again !  O,  sacred  forms,  how  proud  ye  look  ! 

How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky ! 

How  huge  you  are !  how  mighty  and  how  free ! 

Ye  are  the  things  that  tower,  that  shine,  whose  smile 

Makes  glad,  whose  frown  is  terrible,  whose  forms, 

Robed  or  unrobed,  do  all  the  impress  wear 

Of  awe  divine.     Ye  guards  of  liberty ! 

I'm  with  you  once  again  ! — I  call  to  you 

With  all  my  voice  !     I  hold  my  hands  to  you 

To  show  they  still  are  free.     I  rush  to  you, 

As  though  I  could  embrace  you ! 

3.  First  came  renowned  Warwick, 
Who  cried  aloud,  "  What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence?" 
And  so  he  vanished.     Then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood  ;  and  he  shrieked  out,  aloud, — 
"Claeexce  is  come— false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence  ; 
Seize  on  him,  ye  furies,  take  him  to  your  torments" 

3.  Moderate  Pitch  is  that  which  is  heard  in  common 
conversation  and  description,  and  in  moral  reflection,  or 
calm  reasoning ;  as, 

1.  The  morning  itself,  few  people,  inhabitants  of  cities,  know 
any  thing  about.  Among  all  our  good  people,  not  one  in  a 
thousand  sees  the  sun  rise  once  in  a  year.  They  know  nothing 
of  the  morning.  Their  idea  of  it  is,  that  it  is  that  part  cf  the 
day  that  comes  along  after  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  beef-steak,  or 
a  piece  of  toast. 


60  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  The  mountains  look  on  Marathon, 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea  ; 
And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  thought  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  ; 
For,  standing  on  the  Persian's  grave, 
I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

4.  Low  Pitch  is  that  which  is  heard  when  the  voice  falls 
below  the  common  speaking  key.  It  is  used  in  expressing 
reverence,  awe,  sublimity,  and  tender  emotions  ;  as, 

1.  'Tis  midnight's  holy  horn*,  and  silence  now 
Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  on  the  winds 
The  bells'  deep  tones  are  swelling  ; — 'tis  the  knell 
Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 
Is  sweeping  past,  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 
With  melancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest, 
Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud  ;  the  air  is  stirred 
As  by  a  mourner's  sigh  ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 
That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 
The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand. 

2.  Softly  woo  away  her  breath, 
Gentle  Death ! 
Let  her  leave  thee  with  no  strife, 
Tender,  mournful,  murmuring  Life ! 
She  hath  seen  her  happy  day  : 

She  hath  had  her  bud  and  blossom  ; 
Now  she  pales  and  sinks  away, 
Earth,  into  thy  gentle  bosom ! 

H. 

FORCE. 

FORCE l  is  the  volume  or  loudness  of  voice,  used  on  the 
same  key  or  pitch,  when  reading  or  speaking.    Though 
the  degrees  of  force  are  numerous,  varying  from  a  soft 

1  Exercise  on  Force. — For  a  gen-  until  the  whole  power  of  the  voice  is 

eral  exercise  on  force,  select  a  sen-  brought  into  play.     Reverse  the  prO- 

tence,  and  deliver  it  on  a  given  key,  cess,  without  change  of  key,  ending 

wifh  voice  just  sufficient  to  be  heard  ;  with  a  whisper.     This  exercise  can 

then  gradually  increase  the  quantity,  not  be  too  frequently  repeated. 


FORCE.  £\ 

whisper  to  a  shout,  yet  they  may  be  considered  as  three  : 
Loud,  Moderate,  and  Gentle. 

2.  Loud  Force  is  used  in  strong,  but  suppressed  pas- 
sions, and  in  emotions  of  sorrow,  grief,  respect,  veneration, 
dignity,  apathy,  and  contrition  ;  as, 

1.  How  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks! 
I  hate  him,  for  that  ho  is  a  Christian. 
If  I  but  ctttch  him  once  upon  the  hip, 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him. 

2.  Virtue  takes  place  of  all  things.  It  is  the  nobility  of  angels  ! 
It  is  the  majesty  of  GOD  ! 

3.  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  ocean — roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain. 

4.  O  thou  that,  with  surpassing  glory  crowned, 
Look'st  from  thy  solo  dominion,  like  the  God 
Of  this  new  world  ;  at  whose  sight  all  the  stars 
Hide  their  diminished  heads  ;  to  thee  I  call, 
But  with  no  friendly  voice,  and  add  thy  name, 

0  Sun,  to  tell  thee  how  I  hate  thy  beams, 
That  bring  to  my  remembrance  from  what  state 

1  fell,  how  glorious  once  above  thy  sphere  ; 
Till  pride  and  worse  ambition  threw  me  down, 
Waning  in  heaven  against  heaven's  matchless  King. 

3.  Moderate  Force,  or  a  medium  degree  of  loudness,  is 
used  in  ordinary  assertion,  narration,  and  description  ;  as, 

1.  Remember  this  saying,  "  The  good  paymaster  is  lord  of 
another  man's  purse."  He  that  is  known  to  pay  punctually, 
and  exactly  at  the  time  he  promises,  may,  at  any  time,  and  on 
any  occasion,  raise  all  the  money  his  friends  can  spare. 

2.  What  is  the  blooming  tincture  of  the  skin, 
To  peace  of  mind  and  harmony  within  ? 
"What  the  bright  sparkling  of  the  finest  eye, 
To  the  soft  soothing  of  a  calm  reply  ? 

Can  comeliness  of  form,  or  shape,  or  air, 
With  comeliness  of  words  or  deeds  compare  ? 
No !  those  at  first  the  unwary  heart  may  gain, 
But  these,  these  onlv,  can  the  heart  retain. 

3.  I  have  seen 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 


62  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipped  shell  : 
To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely  ; — and  his  countenance  soon 
Brightened  with  joy  ;  for  murmurings  from  within 
Were  heard,  sonorous  cadences !  whereby, 
To  his  belief,  the  monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 
Even  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith. 

4.  Gentle  Force,  or  a  slight  degree  of  loudness,  is  used 
to  express  caution,  fear,  secrecy,  and  tender  emotions ;  as, 

1.  Heard  ye  the  whisper  of  the  breeze, 

As  softly  it  murmured  by, 
Amid  the  shadowy  forest  trees  ? 

It  tells,  wim  meaning  sigh, 
Of  the  bowers  of  bliss  on  that  viewless  shore. 
Where  the  weary  spirit  shall  sin  no  more. 

2.  The}'  are  sleeping !     Who  are  sleeping  ? 

Pause  a  moment — softly  tread  ; 
Anxious  friends  are  fondly  keeping 

Vigils  by  the  sleeper's  bed ! 
Other  hopes  have  all  forsaken  ; 

One  remains — that  slumber  deep  : 
Speak  not,  lest  the  slumberer  waken 

From  that  sweet,  that  saving  sleep. 

m. 

QUALITY. 

QUALITY  has  reference  to  the  kinds  of  tone  used  in 
reading  and  speaking.     They  are  the  Pure  Tone,  the 
Orotund,  the  Aspirated,  the  Guttural,  and  the  Trembling. 
2.  The  Pure  Tone  is  a  clear,  smooth,  round,  flowing 
sound,  accompanied  with  moderate  pitch ;  and  is  used  to 
express  peace,  cheerfulness,  joy,  and  love  ;  as, 

1.  Methinks  I  love  all  common  things — 
The  common  air,  the  common  flower  ; 
The  dear,  kind,  common  thought,  that  springs 


QUALITY.  63 

From  hearts  that  have  no  other  dower, 

No  other  wealth,  no  other  power, 
Save  love  ;  and  will  not  that  repay 
For  all  else  fortune  tears  away  ? 

%  It  is  the  hour,  when  from  the  boughs 
The  nightingale's  high  note  is  heard ; 

It  is  the  hour  when  lovers'  vows 

Seem  sweet  in  every  whispered  word  ; 

And  gentle  winds,  and  waters  near, 

Make  music  to  the  lonely  ear. 

Each  flower  the  dews  have  lightly  wet, 

And  in  the  sky  the  stars  are  met, 

And  on  the  wave  is  deeper  blue, 

And  on  the  leaf  a  browner  hue, 

And  in  the  heaven  that  clear  obscure, 

So  softly  dark,  and  darkly  pure, 

Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 

As  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away. 

3.  The  Oeotuxd  is  the  pure  tone  deepened,  enlarged, 
and  intensified.  It  is  used  in  all  energetic  and  vehement 
forms  of  expression,  and  in  giving  utterance  to  grand  and 
sublime  emotions ;  as, 

1.  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires  ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
STRIKE — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  ; 

God — and  vour  native  land  ! 

2.  "Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Charge  for  the  guns  !"  he  said  : — 

Into  the  valley  of  Death  rode  the  six  hundred. 

3.  The  sky  is  changed !  and  such  a  change !  0  Night, 
And  Storm,  and  Darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 

Of  a  dark  evo  in  woman !     Far  along-, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 
Leaps  the  live  thunder ! — not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue  ; 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud  I 


64  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

4.  The  Aspirated  Tone  is  an  expulsion  of  the  breath 
more  or  less  strong,—  the  words,  or  portions  of  them,  being 
spoken  in  a  whisper.  It  is  used  to  express  amazement, 
fear,  terror,  horror,  revenge,  and  remorse  ;  as, 

1.  How  ill  this  taper  burns ! 
Ha  !  who  comes  here  f 

Cold  drops  of  sweat  hang  on  my  trembling  flesh, 
My  blood  grows  chilly,  and  I  freeze  with  horror  ! 

2.  The  ancient  Earl,  with  stately  grace, 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whisper,  in  an  under-tone, 

"  Let  the  hawk  sloop,  his  prey  is  floivn." 

3.  While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 

Or  whispering  with  white  lips, "  TJiefoe  !  they  come,  they  come  !" 

5.  The  Guttural  is  a  deep  under-tone,  used  to  express 
hatred,  contempt,  and  loathing.  It  usually  occurs  on  the 
emphatic  words ;  as, 

1.  Thou  slave,  thou  icretch,  thou  coward  ! 
Thou  cold-blooded  slave  ! 
TJwu  wear  a  lion's  hide  ? 
Doff  it,  for  shame,  and  hang 
A  calfskin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

2.  Thou  stand'st  at  length  before  me  undisguised, 
Of  all  earth's  groveling  crew  the  most  accursed  I 
Thou  worm !  thou  viper ! — to  thy  native  earth 
Return !     Away !     Thou  art  too  base  for  man 
To  tread  upon.     Thou  scum  !  thou  reptile  ! 

6.  The  Tremulous  Tone,  or  tremor,  consists  of  a  tremu- 
lous iteration,  or  a  number  of  impulses  of  sound  of  the 
least  assignable  duration.  It  is  used  in  excessive  grief, 
pity,  plaintiveness,  and  tenderness ;  in  an  intense  degree  of 
suppressed  excitement,  or  satisfaction  ;  and  when  the  voice 
is  enfeebled  by  age. 

7.  The  tremulous  tone  should  not  be  applied  through- 
out the  whole  of  an  extended  passage,  but  only  on  selected 
emphatic  words,  as  otherwise  the  effect  would  be  monoto- 
nous.    In  the  second  of  the  following  examples,  where  the 


RATE.  65 

tremor  of  age  is  supposed  to  be  joined  wifh  that  of  suppli- 
cating distress,  the  tremulous  tone  may  be  applied  to  every 
emphatic  syllable  capable  of  prolongation,  which  is  the 
case  with  all  except  those  of  pity  and  shortest;  but  even 
these  may  receive  it  in  a  limited  degree. 

0  love,  remain  !     It  is  not  yet  near  day  ! 

It  was  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 

That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear  ; 

Nightly  she  sings  in  yon  pomegranate-tree. 

Believe  me,  love,  it  was  the  nightingale. 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  jioor  old  man, 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  door, 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span  : 

0  give  relief,  and  Ileaven  iciU  bless  your  store. 

IV. 
KATE. 

I)  ATE 1  refers  to  movement  in  reading  and  speaking,  and 
Y  is  Quick,  Moderate,  or  Slow. 

2.  Quick  Rate  is  used  to  express  joy,  mirth,  confusion, 
violent  anger,  and  sudden  fear ;  as, 

1.  Away !  away !  our  fires  stream  bright 

Along  the  frozen  river, 
And  their  arrowy  sparkles  of  brilliant  light 
On  the  forest  branches  quiver. 

2.  Away !  away  to  the  rocky  glen, 

"Where  the  deer  are  wildly  bounding ! 
And  the  hills  shall  echo  in  gladness  again, 
To  the  hunter's  bugle  sounding. 

3.  The  lake  has  burst !     The  lake  has  burst ! 

Down  through  the  chasms  the  wild  waves  flee  : 


1  Exercise  on  Rate. — For  a  gen-  ticulation  ceases.    Having  done  this, 

oral  exercise,  select  a  sentence,  and  reverse  the  process,  repeating  slower 

deliver  it  as  slowly  as  may  be  possible  and  slower.     Thus  you  may  acquire 

without  drawling.     Repeat  the  sen-  the  ability  to  increase  and  diminish 

tence  with  a  slight  increase  of  rate,  rate  at  pleasure,  which  is  one  of  the 

until  you  shall  have  reached  a  rapid-  most  important   elements  of  good 

ity  of  utterance  at  which  distinct  ar-  reading  and  speaking. 


66  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

They  gallop  along,  with  a  roaring  song, 
Away  to  the  eager  awaiting  sea ! 

4.  And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste  :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war. 

3.  Moderate  Rate  is  used  in  ordinary  assertion,  narra- 
tion, and  description ;  in  cheerfulness,  and  the  gentler  forms 
of  the  emotions  ;  as, 

1.  When  the  sun  walks  upon  the  blue  sea-waters, 
Smiling  the  shadows  from  yon  purple  hills, 
We  pace  this  shore, — I  and  my  brother  here, 
Good  Gerald.     We  arise  with  the  shrill  lark, 
And  both  unbind  our  brows  from  sullen  dreams  ; 
And  then  doth  my  dear  brother,  who  hath  worn 
His  cheek  all  pallid  with  perpetual  thought, 
Enrich  me  with  sweet  words  ;  and  6ft  a  smile 
Will  stray  amidst  his  lessons,  as  he  marks 

New  wonder  paint  my  cheek,  or  fondly  reads, 
Upon  the  burning  page  of  my  black  eyes, 
The  truth  reflected  which  he  casts  on  me. 

2.  I  have  sinuous  shells  of  pearly  hue 
Within,  and  they  that  luster  have  imbibed 

In  the  sun's  palace-porch,  where,  when  unyoked, 

His  chariot-wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave  : 

Shake  one  and  it  awakens,  then  apply 

Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  ear, 

And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes, 

And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there. 

3.  Warriors  and  statesmen  have  their  meed  of  praise, 

And  what  they  do,  or  suffer,  men  record  ; 
But  the  long  sacrifice  of  woman's  days 

Passes  without  a  thought,  without  a  word  ; 
And  many  a  lofty  struggle  for  the  sake 

Of  duties  sternly,  faithfully  fulfilled — 
For  which  the  anxious  mind  must  watch  and  wake, 

And  the  strong  feelings  of  the  heart  be  stilled — 
Goes  by  unheeded  as  the  summer  wind, 
And  leaves  no  memory  and  no  trace  behind ! 


MONOTONE.  67 

Yet  it  may  be,  more  lofty  courage  dwells 

In  one  meek  heart  which  braves  an  adverse  fate, 

Than  his  whose  ardent  soul  indignant  swells 

Warmed  by  the  fight,  or  cheer'd  through  high  debate. 

The  soldier  dies  surrounded  :  could  he  live, 

Alone  to  suffer,  and  alone  to  strive  ? 

4.  Slow  Rate  is  used  to  express  grandeur,  yastness, 
pathos,  solemnity,  adoration,  horror,  and  consternation  ;  as, 

1.  O  thou  Eternal  One !  whose  presence  bright 

All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide  ; 
Unchanged  through  time's  all-dev'astating  flight ; 
Thou  only  God !     There  is  no  God  beside ! 

2.  The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day  ; 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  6'er  the  lea  ; 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

3.  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark-blue  ocean — roll ! 

Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain  : 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin — his  control 

Stops  with  the  shore  ; — upon  the  watery  plain 

The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 

When,  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 


V.    MOXOTOXE. 

MONOTONE  consists  of  a  degree  of  sayneness  of  sound, 
or  tone,  in  a  number  of  successive  words  or  syllables. 

2.  It  is  very  seldom  the  case  that  a  perfect  sameness  is  to 
be  observed  in  reading  any  passage  or  sentence.  But  very 
little  variety  of  tone  is  to  be  used  in  reading  either  prose 
or  verse  which  contains  elevated  descriptions,  or  emotions 
of  solemnity,  sublimity,  or  reverence. 

3.  The  monotone  usually  requires   a  low  tone   of  the 


63  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

voice,  loud  or  prolonged  force,  and  a  slow  rate  of  utterance. 
It  is  this  tone  only,  that  can  present  the  conditions  of  the 
supernatural  and  the  ghostly. 

The  sign  of  monotone  is  a  horizontal  or  even  line  over  the 
words  to  be  spoken  evenly,  or  without  inflection ;  as, 

I  heard  a  voice  saying,  Shall  mortal  man  be  more  just  tnan 
God !     Shall  a  man  be  more  pure  than  his  Maker ! 

EXERCISES    IN    MONOTONE. 


1.  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-piace  in  ail  generations. 
Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst 


ifc>j 


formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from  everlasting  to  ever- 
lasting, Thou  art  God. 

2.  Tnen  the  earth  shook  and  trembled  ;  the  foundations,  also, 
of  the  hills  moved,  and  were  shaken,  because  he  was  wroth. 
There  went  up  a  smoke  out  of  his  nostrils,  and  tire  out  of  his 
mouth  devoured.  He  bowed  the  heavens,  also,  and  came  down, 
and  darkness  was  under  his  feet ;  and  he  rode  upon  a  cherub, 
and  did  fly' ;  yea,  he  did  fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind. 

3.  Man  clieth,  and  wasteth  away  :  yea,  man  giveth  up  the 
ghost,  and  where  is  he  ?  As  the  waters  fail  from  the  sea,  and 
the  flood  decayeth  and  drieth  up,  so  man  lieth  down,  and 
riseth  nut;  till  the  heavens  be  no  more,  they  shall  not  awake, 
nor  be  raised  out  of  their  sleep. 


4.       High  on  a  throne  of  rovai  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Orrnus  or  of  Ind, 
Or  where  the  gorgeous  East,  with  richest  hand, 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 
Satan  exalted  sat ! 


5.       How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 
"Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads, 
To  bear  aloft  its  arched  and  ponderous  roof, 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immovable, 
Looking  tranquillity  !     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight  :  the  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold, 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 


PERSONATION.  09 

6        Our  revels  are  now  ended  :  these  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air  ; 
And  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 


The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself — 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  this  unsubstantial  pageant,  faded — 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind. 


7.  I  am  thy  father's  spirit  ; 


Doomed  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night, 
And,  for  the  day  confined  to  fast  in  fires, 


Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature, 
Are  burnt  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  my  prison-house, 


I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 

Would  harrow  up  thy  soul ;  freeze  thy  young  blood  ; 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres  ; 

Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part, 

And  each  particular  liair  to  staud  on  end, 

Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine  : 

But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 

To  ears  of  flesli  and  blood  : — List, — list, — O  list ! — 

If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, 

Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murder. 


VI.    PEESOXATIOX 

PERSONATION    consists    of    those    modulations,    or 
changes  of  the  voice,  necessary  to  represent  two  or 
more  persons  as  speaking. 

2.  This  principle  of  expression,  upon  the  correct  applica- 
tion of  which  much  of  the  beauty  and  efficiency  of  delivery 
depends,  is  employed  in  reading  dialogues  and  other  pieces 
of  a  conversational  nature. 

3.  The  student  should  exercise  his  discrimination  and 


70  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

ingenuity  in  studying  the  character  of  persons  to  be  rep- 
resented,— fully  informing  himself  with  regard  to  their  tem- 
perament and  peculiarities,  as  well  as  their  condition  and 
feelings  at  the  time, — and  so  modulate  his  voice  as  best  to 
personate  them. 

EXERCISE    IN    PERSONATION. 

He.  Dost  thou  love  wandering  ?     "Whither  wouldst  thou  go  ? 
Dream'st  thou,  sweet  daughter,  of  a  land  more  fair  ? 
Dost  thou  not  love  these  aye-blue  streams  that  flow  ? 
These  spicy  forests  ?  and  this  golden  air  ? 

She.  Oh,  yes,  I  love  the  woods,  and  streams,  so  gay  ; 

And  more  than  all,  O  father,  I  love  thee  ; 
Yet  would  I  fain  be  wandering — far  away, 

Where  such  things  never  were,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 
He.  Speak,  mine  own  daughter  wifh  the  sun-bright  locks ! 

To  what  pale,  banished  region  wouldst  thou  roam  ? 
She.  O  father,  let  us  find  our  frozen  rocks ! 

Let's  seek  that  country  of  all  countries — Home  ! 

He.  Seest  thou  these  orange  flowers  ?  this  palm  that  rears 

Its  head  up  toward  heaven's  blue  and  cloudless  dome  ? 

She.  I  dream,  I  dream  ;  mine  eyes  are  hid  in  tears  ; 

My  heart  is  wandering  round  our  ancient  home. 

He.  Why,  then,  we'll  go.     Farewell,  ye  tender  skies, 

Who  sheltered  us,  when  we  were  forced  to  roam ! 

She.  On,  on !     Let's  pass  the  swallow  as  he  flies ! 

Farewell,  kind  land !     Now,  father,  now — for  Home  ! 


VII.    PAUSES. 
I. 

DEFINITIONS. 

PAUSES  are  suspensions  of  the  voice  in  reading  and 
speaking,  used  to  mark  expectation  and  uncertainty, 
and  to  give  effect  to  expression. 

Pauses  are  often  more  eloquent  than  words.     They  differ 
greatly  in  their  frequency  and  their  length.     In  lively  con- 


RULES    FOR    PAUSES.  71 

versation  and  rapid  argument,  they  are  comparatively  few 
and  short.  In  serious,  dignified,  and  pathetic  speaking, 
they  are  far  more  numerous,  and  more  prolonged. 

The  pause  is  marked  thus  ~,  in  the  following  illustrations 
and  exercises. 

n. 

EULES    FOR    PAUSES. 

NOMINATIVES. — A  pause  is  required  after  a  compound 
nominative,  in  all  cases ;  and  after  a  nominative  con- 
sisting of  a  single  word,  when  it  is  either  emphatic,  or  is  the 
leading  subject  of  discourse  ;  as, 

Joy  and  sorrow  *\  move  him  not.  No  people  ^  can  claim  him. 
No  country  ^  can  appropriate  him. 

2.  Words  in  Apposition. — A  pause  is  required  after  words 
which  are  in  apposition  with,  or  ojjposition  to,  each  other ;  as, 

Solomon  *i  the  son  of  David  «*i  was  king  of  Israel.  False  del- 
icacy is  affectation  ^not  politeness. 

3.  A  Transition. — A  pause  is  required  after  but,  hence, 
and  other  words  denoting  a  marked  transition,  when  they 
stand  at  the  beginning  of  a  sentence ;  as, 

But  ~i  it  was  reserved  for  Arnold  m  to  blend  all  these  bad 
qualities  into  one.  Hence  ^i  Solomon  calls  the  fear  of  the 
Lord  m  the  bejnnninjx  of  wisdom. 

©  o 

4.  Conjunctions  and  Relatives. — A  pause  is  required 
before  that,  when  a  conjunction  or  relative,  and  the  rela- 
tives who,  which,  what;  together  with  ivhen,  ichence,  and 
other  adverbs  of  time  and  place,  which  involve  the  idea  of 
a  relative ;  as, 

He  went  to  school  ^  that  he  might  become  wise.  This  is  the 
man  ^  that  loves  me.  We  were  present  **\  when  La  Fayette 
embarked  at  Havre  for  New  York. 

5.  The  Infinitive. — A  pause  is  required  before  the  infini- 
ti  ve  mood,  when  governed  by  another  verb,  or  separated  by 
an  intervening  clause  from  the  word  which  governs  it ;  as, 

He  has  gone  **i  to  convey  the  news.  He  smote  me  wife  a 
rod  <*]  to  please  my  enemy. 


72  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

6.  In  cases  of  Ellipsis,  a  pause  is  required  where  one 
or  more  words  are  omitted ;  as, 

So  goes  the  world  :  if  ^  wealthy,  you  may  call  this  ~\  friend, 
that  «|  brother. 

7.  Qualifying  Clauses. — Pauses  are  used  to  set  off  qual- 
ifying clauses  by  themselves ;  to  separate  qualifying  terms 
from  each  other,  when  a  number  of  them  refer  to  the  same 
word ;  and  when  an  adjective  follows  its  noun ;  as, 

The  rivulet  sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  <*|  tripping  o'er  its  bed 
of  pebbly  sands,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks  *q  seems  ^with  continu- 
ous  laughttr  *-\ to  rejoice  in  its  own  being.  He  had  a  mind^i 
deep  «*]  active  «*i  well  stored  with  knowledge. 

These  rules,  though  important,  if  properly  applied,  are 
by  no  means  complete ;  nor  can  any  be  invented  which 
shall  meet  all  the  cases  that  arise  in  the  complicated  rela- 
tions of  thought. 

A  good  reader  or  speaker  pauses,  on  an  average,  at  every 
fifth  or  sixth  word,  and  in  many  cases  much  more  frequent- 
ly. His  only  guide,  in  many  instances,  is  a  discriminating 
taste  in  grouping  ideas,  and  separating  by  pauses  those 
which  are  less  intimately  allied.  In  doing  this,  he  will 
often  use  what  may  be  called  suspensive  quantity. 

in. 

SUSPENSIVE    QUANTITY. 

SUSPENSIVE  QUANTITY  means  prolonging  the  end 
of  a  word,  without  an  actual  pause  ;  and  thus  suspend- 
ing, without  wholly  interrupting,  the  progress  of  sound. 

The  prolongation  on  the  last  syllable  of  a  word,  or  sus- 
pensive quantity,  is  indicated  thus  ,  in  the  following  exam- 
ples.    It  is  used  chiefly  for  three  purposes  : 

1st.  To  prevent  too  frequent  a  recurrence  of  pauses ;  as, 

Her  lover   sinks — she  sheds  no  ill-timed  tear  ; 

Her  chief  is  slain — she  fills  his  fatal  post ; 
Her  fellows  flee — she  checks  their  base  career  ; 

The  foe~retires — she  heads  the  rallying  host. 


EXERCISES    IN    PAUSES.  73 

2d.  To  produce  a  slighter  disjunction  than  would  be  made 
by  a  pause  ;  and  thus  at  once  to  separate  and  unite  ;  as, 

Would  you  kill  your  friend  and  benefactor?  Would  you 
practice  hypocrisy  and  smile  in  his  face,  while  your  conspiracy 
is  ripening  V 

3d.  To  break  up  the  current  of  sound  into  small  portions, 
which  can  be  easily  managed  by  the  speaker,  without  the 
abruptness  which  would  result  from  pausing  wherever  this 
relief  was  needed  ;  and  to  give  ease  in  speaking  ;  as, 

Warms-  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows- in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees  ; 
Lives   through  all  life,  extends   through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates   unspent. 

General  Rule. — When  a  preposition  is  followed  by  as 
many  as  three  or  four  words  which  depend  upon  it,  the 
word  preceding  the  preposition  will  either  have  suspensive 
quantity,  or  else  a  pause  ;  as, 

Ho  is  the  in'ide   of  the  whole  country. 

Require  students  to  tell  which  of  the  preceding  rules  or 
principles  is  illustrated,  wherever  a  mark,  representing  the 
pause  or  suspensive  quantity,  is  introduced  in  the  following 

EXERCISES    IN    PAUSES. 

1.  It  matters  very  little  *i  what  immediate  spot*' may  have 
been  the  birth-place  of  such  a  man  as  Washington.  No  peo- 
ple^ can  claim  *i*i  no  country**  can  appropriate  him.  The 
boon  of  Providence  to  the  human  race*' his  fame*' is  eter- 
nity *i*i  and  his  dwelling-place  ~~  creation. 

2.  Though  it  was  the  defeat  m  of  our  arms  **  and  the  dis- 
grace *i  of  our  policy*-*' I  almost  bless  the  convulsion ** in 
which  he  had  his  origin.  If  the  heavens  thundered  *-  and  the 
earth  rocked*^*- yet*- when  the  storm  passed *- how  pure  was 
the  climate *i that  it  cleared*-*- how  bright  *-  in  the  brow  of  the 
firmament *i  was  the  planet *- which  it  revealed  to  us! 

3.  In  the  production  of  Washington -*•  it  does  really  appear*- 
as  if  nature  *i  was  endeavoring  to  improve  upon  herself  *-*»*  and 
that  all  the  virtues-of  the  ancient  world  *-  were  but  so  many 
{tfw/j'es*i  preparatory- to  the  patriot  of  the  new.     Individual 


74  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

instances  «<  no  doubt  there  were  ^  splendid  exemplifications  h  of 
some  single  qualification.  Coesar  *i  was  merciful  *i  **i  Scipio  *<  was 
continent  wi^i  Hannibal  ^  was  patient.  But^iit  was  reserved 
for  Washington  ^  to  blend  them  all  in  one  **!*»■  and  ^  like  the 
lovely  masterpiece  of  the  Grecian  artiste  to  exhibits  in  one 
glow- of  associated  beauty  ~i  the  pride  of  every  model  **  and  the 
perfection  of  every  master. 

4.  As  a  general  <*i*i  he  marshaled  the  peasants  into  a  vet- 
eran <^h  and  supplied  by  discipline  ^ithe  absence  of  experience. 
As  a  statesman h*i he  enlarged  the  poHcy  of  the  cabinet  **•  into 
the  most  comprehensive  system  of  general  advantage.  And 
such  h  was  the  wisdom  of  his  views  **  and  the  philosophy- of 
his  counsels  m  *i  that  to  the  soldiery  and  the  statesman  ^  he 
almost  added  *j  the  character  of  the  sage. 

5.  A  conqueror  **i  he  was  untainted  wim  the  crime  of  blood  ^i  wj 
a  revolutionist  **j  he  was  free  from  any  stain  of  treason  **i  for 
aggression- commenced  the  contests  and  his  country- called 
him  to  the  field.  Liberty  **i  unsheathed  his  sword  ^^neces- 
sity <*i  stained  ^i^i  victory  h  returned  it. 

6.  If  he  had  paused  here  **i  history  might  have  doubted  h  what 
station  to  assign  him ^\^\ whether  at  the  head  of  her  citizens**! 
or  her  soldiers  «*m  her  heroes  <*\  or  her  patriots.  But  the  last- 
glorious  act  ~i  crowns  his  career  «  and  banishes  all  hesitation. 
Who  >*i  like  Washington  «i  after  having  emancipated  a  hemis- 
phere **j  resigned  its  crown  ^m  and  preferred  the  retirement  of 
domestic  life  h  to  the  adoration  of  a  land  wj  he  might  almost  be 
said  to  have  created  ? 

7.    How- shall  we  rank  thee  **i  upon  glory's  page, 
Thou  mdre~ than  soldier ^ and  just  less  than  sage ! 
All  thou  hasf  been  ^  reflects  less  praise  <-i  on  thee, 
Far~less  m  than  all  thou  hast  forborne  to  be. 


KEY    TO    THE    USE    OF    MARKED    LETTERS. 

age  or  age,  at  or  at,  art,  all,  bare,  ask ;  we  or  we,  £nd  or 
end,  her ;  ice  or  Ice,  !n  or  in,  fly,  hymn ;  old  or  old,  on  or 
on,  do  ;  mute  or  mute,  up  or  tip,  full ;  fliis  ;  azure ;  real,  (not 
rel) ;  oVershoot' ;  badness,  (not  rnss) ;  aged,  (not  djd) ;  g  as  j. 


DsDEX    TO    EDITIONS. 


5^"  The  figures  refer  to  the  pages  where  the  same  lessons  may  be  found 
in  the  two  editions  of  this  work. 


NEW  ED.  OLD  ED. 

77 67 

81 71 

85 77 

87 171 

89 99 

92 95 

94 360 

97 81 

100 84 

101 160 

103 249 

105 251 

106 253 

110 256 

113 138 

117 92 

120 398 

123 401 

126 404 

129 116 

132 119 

134 109 

136 Ill 

139 115 

140 

142 121 

144 123 

147 127 

148 128 

150 130 

153 134 

155 415 

175 

160 

162 


NEW  ED.  OLD  ED. 

164 152 

165 

166 148 

170 

172 

174 200 

177 

178 

180 178 

183 180 

184 181 

185 183 

189 187 

192 191 

198 176 

199 168 

202 538 

204 173 

207 197 

210 300 

214 304 

217 

221 282 

224 375 

227 

230 145 

232 216 

234 218 

237 221 

240 224 

243 228 

247 285 

249 287 

253 291 

255 


NEW  KD.  OLD  ED- 

256 294 

257 163 

261...  r 316 

263 318 

267 322 

270 325 

275 

277 

280 231 

282 

283 233 

284 235 

287 236 

289 239 

291 241 

293 296 

294 296 

295 298 

297 264 

299 262 

301 259 

304 498 

305 499 

307 307 

309 384 

311 501 

313 

315 

317 

318 

321 243 

324 

327 

330 

333 436 


76 


INDEX    TO    EDITIONS. 


iEW  ED. 

OLD  EI). 

NEW  ED. 

OLD  ED. 

NEW  KD. 

OLD  ED. 

338 

. ...    272 

419 

515...    . 

. ...   378 

339 

273 
. ...    275 

422 

518 

521 

. .  . .   483 

341 

426 

. ...   486 

343 

. ...   277 

434 

524 

. ...  489 

346 

.  .  . .   420 

436 

527 

. ...  493 

348  . .- .  .  . 

440 

. ...   445 

532 

. ...   510 

350 

359 
856 

443 

533 
535 
537 

.  ...   511 

352. 

447 
450 

. ...  42; 

505 

355 

...   334 

357 

. ...   595 

452 

427 

543 

. ...  540 

359 

. ...   412 

455 

. ...   430 

544 

. ...   543 

362 

.*. ..   330 

458 

. ...   459 

547 

365 

. . . .    336 

461 

. ...   465 

549 

370 

463 

. ...   468 

551 

....   549 

373 

466 

. ...  470 

555 

378 

. ...   344 

469 

....   449 

558..... 

....   565 

381 

. ...   502 

473 

....   454 

562 

....   569 

884 

381 

479 

565 

. ...   572 

387 

. ...   479 

480 

568 

. ...   562 

390 

. ...   387 

482 

571 

. ...   583 

894 

.  . . .   391 

483 

575   .... 

. ...   575 

896 

. ...   394 

485 

577 

. ...   578 

393 

. . . .    395 

487 

580 

. ...   586 

400 

. . . .   363 

493 

583 

403 

498 

583 

....   588 

405 

. ...   874 

501 

. ...   416 

587 

. ...   592 

406 

. ...   365 

505 

590 

....   477 

410 

. ...   369 

507 

.    ..528 

593 

414. 

597 
....   314 

509 

511 

.      .   518 

596 

417 

PART    II. 

"READINGS. 

SECTION    I. 
I. 

1.     THE    MONTHS. 

JANUARY!  Darkness  and  light  reign  alike.  Snow  is  on 
the '  ground.  Cold  is  in  the 3  air.3  The  winter  is  blossoming 
in  frost-flowers.  Why  is  the  ground  hidden  ?  Why  is  the  earth  * 
white  ?  So  hath  God  wiped  out  the  past,5  so  hath  he  spread 
the  earth  like  an  unwritten  page,  for  a 6  new  year !  Old  sounds 
are  silent  in  the  forest  and  in  the  air.  Insects  are  dead,  birds7 
are  gone,8  leaves  have  perished,  and  all  the  foundations  of  soil 
remain.  Upon  this  lies,  white  and  tranquil,  the  emblem  of 
newness  and  purity,  the  virgin*  robes  of  the  yet  unstained  year ! 
2.  February  !  The  day  gains  upon  the  night.  The  strife  of 
heat  and  cold  is  scarce 10  begun.  The  winds  that  come  from  the 
desolate  north  wander  through  forests  of  frost-cracking  boughs, 
and  shout  in  the  air  the  weird  "  cries  of  the  northern  bergs13 
and  ice-resounding  oceans.  Yet,  as  the  month  wears  on,  the 
silent  work  begins,  though  storms  rage.  The  earth  is  hidden  yet, 
but  not  dead.  The  sun  is  drawing  near.  The  storms  cry  out. 
But  the  sun  is  not  heard  in  all  the  heavens.  Yet  he  whispers 
words  of  deliverance  into  the  ears  of  every  sleeping  seed  and 
root 13  that  lies  beneath  the  snow.  The  day  opens,  but  the  night 
shuts  the  earth  with  its  frost-lock.     They  strive  together,  but 

1  The,  (fhu),  see  Rule  3,  p.  32.  *  Virgin,  (vcr'  jin). 

2  The,  see  Rule  3,  p.  32.  ,0  Scarce,  (skars). 

8  Air,  (ar),  see  Note  2,  p.  22.  u  Weird,  like  witches  ;  skilled  in 

*  Earth,  (erth),  see  Note  4,  p.  22.       witchcraft ;  unearthly  ;  wild. 

6  Past,  (past),  see  Note  3,  p.  22.  "  Bergs,  (borgz),  hills ;  an  iceberg 
e  A,  (a),  see  Rule  2,  p.  32.  is  a  hill  or  mountain  of  ice,  or  a  vast 

7  Birds,  (berdz).  body  of  ice  floating  on  the  ccean. 

•  Gone,  see  Note  1,  p.  23.  "Root,  (rot). 


78  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 

the  Darkness  and  the  Cold  are  growing  weaker.     On  some  nights 
they  forget  to  work. 

3.  March!  The  conflict  is  more  turbulent,1  but  the  victory 
is  gained.  The  world  awakes.3  There3  come  voices  from  long- 
hidden  birds.  The  smell  of  the  soil  is  in  the  air.  The  sullen 
ice  retreating  from  open  field,  and  all  sunny  places,  has  slunk 
to  the  north  of  every  fence  and  rock.  The  knolls  and  banks 
that  face  the  east  or  south  sigh  for  release,  and  begin  to  lift  up 
a  thousand  tiny  palms.4 

4.  April  !  The  singing  month.  Many  voices  of  many  birds 
call  for  resurrection  over  the  graves  of  flowers,  and  they  come 
forth.  Go,  see  what  they  have  lost.  What  have  ice,  and  snow, 
and  storm,  done  unto  them?  How  did  they  fall  into  the  earth, 
stripped  and  bare  ?  How  do  they  come  forth  opening  and  glo- 
rified ?  Is  it,  then,  so  fearful  a  thing  to  lie  in  the  grave  ?  In  its 
wild  career,  shaking  and  scourged  of  storms  through  its  orbit, 
the  earth  has  scattered  away  no  treasures.  The  Hand  that 
governs  in  April  governed  in  January.  You  have  not  lost  what 
God  has  only  hidden.  You  lose  nothing b  in  struggle,  in  trial,  in 
bitter  distress.  If  called  to  shed  thy  joys  as  trees  their  leaves  ; 
if  the  affections  be  driven  back  into  the  heart,  as  the  life  of 
flowers  to  their  roots,  yet  be  patient.  Thou  shalt  lift  up  thy 
leaf-covered  boughs  again.6  Thou  shalt  shoot  forth  from  thy 
roots  new  flowers.  Be  patient.  "Wait.  When  it  is  February, 
April  is  not  far  off.     Secretly  the  plants  love  each  other. 

5.  May  !  O  Flower-Month,  per'fect  the  harvests  of  flowers ! 
Be  not  niggardly.  Search  out  the  cold  and  resentful  nooks T  that 
refused  the  sun,  casting  back  its  rays  from  disdainful  ice,  and 
plant  flowers  even  there.  There  is  goodness  in  the  worst. 
There  is  warmth  in  the  coldness.  The  silent,  hopeful,  unbreath- 
ing  sun,  that  will  not  fret  or  despond,  but  carries  a  placid  brow 
through  the  unwrinkled  heavens,  at  length  conquers  the  very 
rocks,  and  lichens8  grow  and  inconspicuously  blossom.  What 
shall  not  Time  do,  that  carries  in  its  bosom  *  Love  ? 

i  Turbulent,  (t$r'  bu  lent).  8  Lichen,  (11'  ken),  one  of  an  order 
a  Awakes,  (a  woks'),  Note  1,  p.  32.     of  flowerless  plants,  without  distinc- 

8  There,  (thar).  tion   of  leaf  and   stem,   usually  of 

4  Palms,  (pamz).  scaly,  expanded,  front-like  forms,  but 

6  Nothing,  (nuth'  ing).  sometimes  imitating   the   forms  of 
•  Again,  (a  gen').  branches  of  trees. 

7  Nooks,  (n6ks).  9  Bosom,  (buz/  um). 


THE    MONTHS.  79 

G.  Jttnt:  !  Rest !  This  is  tho  year's  bower.  Sit  down  within 
it.  Wipe  from  thy  brow  the  toil.  The  elements  are  thy  ser- 
vants. The  dews  bring  thee  jewels.  The  winds  bring  per'fume. 
The  earth  shows  thee  all  her  treasure.  The  forests  sing  to  thee. 
The  air  is  all  sweetness,  as  if  all  the  angels  of  God  had  gone 
through  it,  bearing  spices  homeward.  The  storms  are  but  as 
flocks  of  mighty  birds  that  spread  their  wings  and  sing  in  tho 
high  heaven !  Speak  to  God,  now,  and  say,  "  O  Father,  where 
art  thou  ?"  And  out  of  every  flower,  and  tree,  and  silver  pool, 
and  twined  thicket,  a  voice  will  come,  "  God  is  in  me."  The 
earth  cries  to  the  heavens,  "  God  is  here."  And  the  heavens  cry- 
to  the  earth,  "  God  is  here."  The  sea  claims  Him.  Tho  land 
hath  Him.  His  footsteps  arc  upon  the  deep !  He  sitteth  upon 
the  Circle  of  the  Earth  !  O  sunny  joys  of  the  sunny  month,  yet 
soft  and  temperate,  how  soon  will  the  eager  months  that  come 
burning  from  the  equator,  scorch  you ! 

7.  July  !  Rouse  up !  The  temperate  heats  that  filled  the 
air  are  raging  forward  to  glow  and  overfill  the  earth  with  hot- 
ness.  Must  it  be  thus  in  everything,  that  June  shall  rush  to- 
ward August?  Or,  is  it  not  that  there  are  deep  and  unreached 
places  for  whose  sake  the  probing  '  sun  pierces  down  its  glowing 
hands  ?  There  is  a  deeper  work  than  June  can  perform.  The 
earth  shall  drink  of  the  heat  before  she  knows  her  nature  or  her 
strength.  Then  shall  she  bring  forth  to  the  uttermost  the  treas- 
ures of  her  bosom.  For,  there  are  things  hidden  far  down,  and 
the  deep  things  of  life  arc  not  known  till  the  fire  reveals  them. 

8.  August  !  Reign,  thou  Fire-Month  !  "What  canst  thou  do  ? 
Neither  shalt  thou  destroy  the  earth,  whom  frosts  and  ice  could 
not  destroy.  The  vines  droop,  the  trees  stagger,  the  broad 
palmed  leaves  give  thee  their  moisture,  and  hang  down.  But 
every  night  the  dew  pities  them.  Yet,  there  are  flowers  that 
look  thee  in  the  eye,  fierce  Sun,  all  day  long,  and  wink  not. 
This  is  the  rejoicing  month  for  joyful  insects.  If  our  unselfish 
eye  would  behold  it,  it  is  the  most  populous  and  the  happiest 
month.  The  herds  plash  in  the  sedge  ;  fish  seek  the  deeper 
pools  ;  forest  fowl  lead  out  their  young  ;  the  air  is  resonant2  of 
insect  orchestras,3  each  one  carrying  his  part  in  Nature's  grand 


1  Prob'  ing,  scrutinizing ;  search-         3  Orchestra,  (ar'  kes  tra),  a  band 
ing  to  the  bottom.  of  musicians  ;  a  place  prepared  for 

5  Resonant,  (rez'  o  nant).  the  performers  in  a  concert. 


80  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

harmony.     August,  thou  art  the  ripeness  of  the  year  !  Thou  art 
the  glowing  center  of  the  circle ! 

9.  September!  There  are  thoughts  in  thy  heart  of  death. 
Thou  art  doing  a  secret  work,  and  heaping  up  treasures  for  an- 
other year.  The  unborn  infant-buds  which  thou  art  tending 
are  more  than  all  the  living  leaves.  Thy  robes  are  luxuriant,  but 
worn  with  softened  pride.  More  dear,  less  beautiful  than  June, 
thou  art  the  heart's  month.  Not  till  the  heats  of  summer  are 
gone,  while  all  its  growths  remain,  do  we  know  the  fullness  of 
life.  Thy  hands  are  stretched  out,  and  clasp  the  glowing  palm 
of  August,  and  the  fruit-smelling  hand  of  October.  Thou  di- 
videst  them  asunder,  and  art  thyself  molded  of  them  both. 

10.  October!  Orchard  of  the  year!  Bend  thy  boughs  to 
the  earth,  redolent  '  of  glowing  fruit !  Ripened  seeds  shake  in 
their  pods.  Apples  drop  in  the  stillest  hours.  Leaves  begin  to 
let  go  when  no  wind  is  out,  and  swing  in  long  waverings  to  the 
earth,  which  they  touch  without  sound,  and  lie  looking  up,  till 
winds  rake  them,  and  heap  them  in  fence  corners.  When  the 
gales  come  through  the  trees,  the  yellow  leaves  trail,  like  sparks 
at  night  behind  the  flying  engine.  The  woods  are  thinner,  so 
that  we  can  see  the  heavens  plainer,  as  we  lie  dreaming  on  the 
yet  warm  moss  by  the  singing  spring.  The  days  are  calm.  The 
nights  are  tranquil.  The  year's  work  is  dene.  She  walks  in 
gorgeous  apparel,  looking  upon  her  long  labor,  and  her  serene 
eye  saith,  "  It  is  good." 

11.  November!  Patient  watcher,  thou  art  asking  to  lay 
down  thy  tasks.  Life,  to  thee,  now,  is  only  a  task  accomplished. 
In  the  night-time  thou  liest  down,  and  the  messengers  of  winter 
deck  thee  with  hoar-frosts  for  thy  burial.  The  morning  looks 
upon  thy  jewels,  and  they  perish  while  it  gazes.  AVilt  thou  not 
come,  O  December? 

12.  December!  Silently  the  month  advances.  There  is 
nothing  to  destroy,  but  much  to  bury.  Bury,  then,  thou  snow, 
that  slumberously  fallest  through  the  still  air,  the  hedge-rows  of 
leaves !  Muffle  thy  cold  wool  about  the  feet  of  shivering  trees ! 
Bury  all  that  the  year  hath  known,  and  let  thy  brilliant  stars, 
that  never  shine  as  they  do  in  thy  frostiest  nights,  behold  the 
work !     But  know,  O  month  of  destruction,  that  in  thy  constel- 


1  RSd'  o  lent,  having  or  diffusing  a  rich  fragrance,  odor,  or  scent. 


HYMN    TO    THE    SEASONS.  81 

latioa '  is  set  that  Star,  whose  rising  is  the  sign,  for  evermore, 

that  there  is  life  in  death  !  Thou  art  the  month  of  resurrection. 

In  thee,  the  Christ  came.     Every  star,  that  looks  down  upon  thy 

labor  and  toil  of  burial,  knows  that  all  things  shall  come  forth 

again.     Storms  shall  sob  themselves  to  sleep.     Silence  shall  find 

a  voice.     Death  shall  live,  Life  shall  rejoice,  Winter  shall  break 

forth  and  blossom  into  Spring,  Spring  shall  put  on  her  glorious 

apparel  and  be  called  Summer.     It  is  life !  it  is  life !  through 

the  whole  year !  II.  W.  Beeper. 

Eev.  Henry  "Ward  Beeciier,  son  of  Dr.  Lyman  Bcecher,  was  born  in  Litch- 
field, Connecticut,  June  24th,  1813.  He  was  graduated  at  Amherst  College,  in 
1834.  He  studied  theology  at  Lane  Seminary,  Cincinnati,  which  was  under  the 
direction  of  his  father;  and  was  first  settled  as  a  Presbyterian  minister  at  Law- 
renccburg,  Dearborn  County,  Indiana,  where  he  remained  two  years.  From 
thence,  he  removed  to  Indianapolis,  the  capital  of  the  State,  where  he  labored 
with  great  acceptation  till  he  accepted  the  unanimous  call  of  a  new  Congrega- 
tional Society,  in  Brooklyn,  New  York.  He  was  installed  pastor  of  the  church, 
October,  1847.  His  eloquent  sermons,  which  arc  never  commonplace,  attract 
very  large  and  attentive  audiences.  He  is  equally  favored  as  a  lecturer  on  topics 
of  the  day,  usually  lecturing  about  eighty  times  a  year,  in  various  parts  of  the 
country.  Mr  Bcecher  generally  avoids  doctrinal  topics.  He  preaches  the  truth 
of  to-day  applied  to  the  temptations,  the  errors,  and  the  wants  of  to-day.  His 
sympathy  with  nature,  acute  observation  of  men  and  things,  remarkable  analy- 
sis of  character,  apt  illustration,  mental  elasticity,  soul-strength,  and  allluence 
and  power  of  diction,  are  equally  apparent  in  bis  writings  and  his  extemporane- 
ous speeches. 

n. 

2.     HYMN    TO    THE    SEASONS. 

THESE,   as  they  change,  Almighty  Father !  these 
Are  but  the  varied  God.     The  rolling  year 
Is  fall  of  Thee.     Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  Thy  tenderness,  and  love. 
Wide  flush  the  fields  ;  the  softening  air  is  balm  ; 
Echo  the  mountains  round  ;  the  forest  smiles; 
And  every  sense  and  every  heart  is  joy. 

2.  Then  comes  Thy  glory  in  the  Summer  months, 
Wifti  liprht  and  heat  refulgent."  Then  thv  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year; 


1  C5nNstella'tion,an  assemblage,  or  some  other  object  which  it  is  im- 

cluster,  or  group  of  fixed  stars,  situ-  ngined  to  resemble. 

ated  near  each  other  in  the  heavens,  2  Re  ful'  gent,   casting    a    bright 

and  bearing  the  name  of  an  animal,  light  ;  brilliant ;  splendid. 


82  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READEK. 

And  oft  Thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks, 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve, 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  Autumn  unconfined, 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  live. 
In  Winter  awful  Thou,  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  Thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled, 
Majestic  darkness !     On  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
Riding  sublime,  Thou  bidst  the  world  adore, 
And  humblest  Nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

3.  MJsterious  round !  what  skill,  what  force  divine, 
Deep  felt,  in  these  appear !  a  simple  train, 

Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art, 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence J  combined  ; 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade  ; 
And  all  so  forming  a  harmonious  whole, 
That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish 5  still. 

4.  But  wandering  6ft,  with  brute 3  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee  ;  marks  not  the  mighty  Hand, 
That,  ever  busy,  wheels  the  silent  sphere  ; 

Works  in  the  secret  deep  ;  shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  6'erspreads  the  Spring  ; 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day  ; 
Feeds  every  creature  ;  hurls  the  tempest  forth  ; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves, 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

5.  Nature,  attend!  join,  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  *  join  ;  and,  ardent,  raise 

One  general  song !     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales, 
Breathe  soft,  whose  spirit  in  your  freshness  breathes  : 
O,  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms ! 
Where,  o'er  the  rock,  the  scarcely  i  waving  pine 

*  Be  neT  i  cence,  the  practice  of  4  AcT  o  ra'  tion,  the  act  of  paying 
doing  good ;  active  goodness,  kind-  honors  to  a  divine  being ;  the  wor- 
ness,  or  charity.  ship  paid  to  God ;   marked  respect 

*  Rav'  ish,  enrapture ;  transport  paid  to  a  superior  or  one  in  high  es« 
with  delight.  teem. 

8  Brute,  (br5t),  see  Rule  4,  p.  32.  ■  Scarcely,  (skars'  II). 


HYMN    TO    THE    SEASONS.  g3 

Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe. 

And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 

Who  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to  heaven 

The  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 

G    His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills  ; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound  ; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale  ;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Hound  His  stupendous  '  praise,  whose  greater  voice 
Or  bids  you 2  roar,  or  bids  your 3  roarings  fall. 

7.  Soft  roll  your  incense,  /icrbs,  and  fruits,4  and  flowers, 
In  mingled  clouds  to  Him,  whose  sun  exalts, 
"Whose  breath  perfumes  you,  and  whose  pencil  paints. 
Ye  forests,  bend  ;  ye  harvests,  wave  to  Him  ; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart, 

As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 

8.  Ye  that  keep  watch  in  heaven,  as  earth  asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  effuse  5  your  mildest  beams  ; 
Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 
Great  source  of  day !  best  image  here  below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 

From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 
On  Nature  write  wirli  every  beam  His  praise. 

9.  The  thunder  rolls  :  be  hushed  the  prostrate  world, 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills  ;  ye  mossy  rocks, 
Betain  the  sound  ;  the  broad  responsive  low, 

Ye  valleys,  raise  ;  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns, 
And  His  unsuffering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands  all,  awake  :  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves  !  and  when  the  restless  day, 

1  Stu  pen"  dous,  literally,  striking  3  You,  (yo). 

dumb  by  its  greatness  of  size  or  ini-  3  Your,  (yor). 

portancc  ;  hence,  astonishing  ;  wod-  4  Fruits,  (frStz),  Kulc  4,  p.  H2. 

derfuJ.  *  Effuse,  (ef  fuz'),  spill,  or  pour  out, 


84  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep, 

Sweetest  of  birds  !  sweet  Philomela,1  charm 

The  listening  shades,  and  teach  the  night  His  praise. 

10.  Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles, 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  and  tongue  of  all, 
Crown  the  great  hymn !  in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men,  to  the  deep  organ  join 

The  long-resounding  voice,  6ft  breaking  clear, 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  bass  ; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardor  rise  to  heaven. 
Or,  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural2  shade, 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove, 
There  let  the  shepherd's  flute,  the  virgin's  lay, 
The  prompting  seraph,3  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons  as  they  roll. 

11.  For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams, 
Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east, 

Be  m)r  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more, 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat! — 
Should  fate  command 4  me  to  the  furthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes, 
Rivers  unknown  to  song, — where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles, — 'tis  naught  to  me  ; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 
And  where  He  vital  breathes,  there  must  be  joy. 

12.  When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 
And  wing  my  mystic &  flight  to  future  worlds, 

I  cheerful  will  obey  ;  there,  with  new  powers, 
Will  rising  wonders  sing.     I  can  not  go 


1  Fhir  o  me'  la,  from  Philomela,  "  SSr'aph,  (Eng.,  plural,  ser'aphs ; 

daughter  of  Pandion,  king  of  Athens,  Heb.,  pi.,  ser'a  phlrn),  an  angel  of  the 

who  was  supposed    to   have    been  highest  order, 

changed  into  a  nightingale ;  hence,  *  Command,  (kom  mand'). 

the  nightingale.  6  MyV    tic,    obscure ;    involving 

3  Rural,  (ro'  ral).  some  hidden  meaning. 


NEVER    DESPAIR  85 

Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns  ; 

Prom  seeming  evil  still  educing  good, 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still, 

In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose 

Myself  in  him,  in  Light  ineffable  ! ' 

Come  then,  expressive  Silence,  muse  His  praise. 

James  Thomson. 

James  Thomson  was  born  at  Ednam,ncar  Kelso,  Roxburgh  County,  Scotland, 
September  11th,  1700,  and  died  August  27th,  1T4S.  lie  was  the  author  of  tho 
"Seasons,"  a  work  which  alone  would  have  perpetuated  his  name.  Though 
born  a  poet,  he  seems  to  have  advanced  but  slowly,  and  by  reiterated  efforts,  to 
refinement  of  taste.  The  first  edition  of  the  "Seasons"  differs  materially  fr<>m 
the  second,  and  the  second  still  more  from  the  third.  Every  alteration  was  an 
improvement  in  delicacy  of  thought  and  language.  That  the  genius  of  Thorn, 
eon  was  purifying  and  working  oil"  its  alloys  up  to  the  termination  of  his  exist- 
ence, may  be  seen  from  the  superiority  in  style  and  diction  of  his  last  poem,  the 
"Castle  of  Indolence,"  to  which  he  brought  not  only  the  full  nature,  hut  the 
perfect  art  of  a  poet.  As  a  dramatic  writer  he  was  unsuccessful.  lie  was  in 
poverty  in  early  life,  but  through  the  inllucnec  of  Lord  Lyttlcton,  he  obtained  a 
pension  of  £100  a  year,  from  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and  an  office  which  brought 
him  £300  per  annum.  He  was  now  in  comparative  opulence,  and  his  residence 
at  Kcw-lane,  near  Richmond,  was  the  scene  of  social  enjoyment  and  lettered 
case.  He  was  friendly,  shy  and  indolent.  His  noted  lines  in  favor  of  early 
rising,  commencing — 

Falsely  luxurious,  will  not  man  awake, 
And  springing  from  the  bed  of  sloth,  &c, 
were  written  in  bed. 


SECTIOX    II. 
I. 

3.     NEVER    DESPAIR. 

THERE  is  no  trait  of  human  character  so  potential3  for  weal 
or  woe  as  firmness.  To  the  business  man  it  is  all-imoor- 
tant.  Before  its  irresistible  energy  the  most  formidable  obsta- 
cles become  as  cobweb  barriers  in  its  path.3  Difficulties,  the 
terror  of  which  causes  the  pampered*  sons  of  luxury  to  shrink 

1  In  ef  fa  ble,  not  capable  of  being  powerful ;  mighty ;  forcible, 

expressed    in    words  ;    untold  ;    un-  '  Path,  (pith). 

speakable.  4  Pam'  pered,  fed  or  gratified  in- 

3  Potential,  (p6  ten'  ekal),  efficient ;  ordinately  or  unduly. 


86  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

back  with  dismay,  provoke  from  the  man  of  lofty  determination 
only  a  smile.  The  whole  history  of  our  race — all  nature,  indeed 
—teems  with  examples  to  show  what  wonders  may  be  accom- 
plished by  resolute  perseverance  and  patient  toil. 

2.  It  is  related  of  Tamerlane, '  the  celebrated  warrior,  the  terror 
of  whose  arms  spread  through  all  the  Eastern  nations,  and  whom 
victory  attended  at  almost  every  step,  that  he  once  learned  from 
an  insect  a  lesson  of  perseverance,  which  had  a  striking  effect 
on  his  future  character  and  success. 

3.  When  closely  pursued  by  his  enemies — as  a  contemporary' 
tells  the  anecdote — he  took  refuge  in  some  old  ruins,  where,  left 
to  his  solitary  musings,  he  espied  an  ant  tugging  and  striving  to 
cany  a  single  grain  of  corn.  His  unavailing  efforts  were  re- 
peated sixty-nine  times,  and  at  each  several  time,  so  soon  as  he 
reached  a  certain  point  of  projection,  he  fell  back  wifh  his  bur- 
den, unable  to  surmount  it ;  but  the  seventieth  time  he  bore 
away  his  spoil  in  triumph,  and  left  the  wondering  hero  reani- 
mated and  exulting  in  the  hope  of  future  victory. 

5.  How  pregnant3  the  lesson  this  incident  conveys!  How 
many  thousand  instances  there  are  in  which  inglorious  defeat 
ends  the  career  of  the  timid  and  desponding,  when  the  same 
tenacity  of  purpose  would  crown  it  with  triumphant  success ! 
Resolution  is  almost  omnipotent.  Sheridan4  was  at  first  timid, 
and  obliged  to  sit  down  in  the  midst  of  a  speech.  Convinced 
of,  and  mortified  at,  the  cause  of  his  failure,  he  said  one  day  to 
a  friend,  "  It  is  in  me,  and  it  shall  come  out." 

5.  From  that  moment  he  rose,  and  shone,  and  triumphed  in 
a  consummate 6  eloquence.  Here  was  true  moral  courage.  And 
it  was  well  observed  by  a  heathen  moralist,  that  it  is  not  because 
things  are  difficult  that  we  dare 6  not  undertake  them. 

1  Tarn'  er  lane,  called  also  Timour  fever,  and  died  soon  after  taking  the 

the  Tartar,  was  born  1335.     He  be-  field,  18th  February,  1405. 

came  sovereign  of  Tartary,  and  sub-  ■  Con  tern'  po  rary,  living,  acting, 

dued  Persia,  India  and  Syria.    With,  or  happening  at  the  same  time, 

an  army  of  200,000  men,  in  a  battle  ■  Preg'  nant,  full  of  consequences, 

fought  at  Angora,  on  the  20th  of  July,  *  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  sco 

1402,  he  defeated  the  Turkish  army,  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  126. 

composed  of  300,000  men,  and  made  6  Con  siim'  mate,  carried   to  the 

their  emperor,  Bajazet,  prisoner.   He  utmost  extent  or  degree  ;  complete; 

was  on  the  point  of  invading  China,  perfect, 

when  ho  was  seized  with  a  violent  Dare,  (dlr),  cec  Note  2,  p.  22. 


now.  87 

G.  Be,  then,  bold  in  spirit.  Indulge  no  doubts — they  arc 
traitors.  In  the  practical  pursuit  of  our  high  aim,  let  us  never 
lose  sight  of  it  in  the  slightest  instance  :  for  it  is  more  by  a  dis- 
regard of  small  things,  than  by  open  and  flagrant  offenses,  that 
men  come  short  of  excellence.  There  is  always  a  right  and  a 
wrong  ;  and  if  you  ever  doubt,  be  sure  you  take  not  the  wrong. 
Observe  this  rule,  and  every  experience  will  be  to  you  a  mean3 
of  advancement. 

n. 

4.     NOW. 

THE  venerable  Past — is  past ; 
'Tis  dark,  and  shines  not  in  the  ray  : 
'Twas  good,  no  doubt — 'tis  gone  at  last — 

There  dawns  another  day. 
Why  should  we  sit  where  ivies  creep, 
And  shroud  ourselves  in  charnels  deep  ? 
Or  the  world's  yesterdays  deplore, 
Mid  crumbling  ruins  mossy  hoar? 

2.  Why  should  we  see  with  dead  men's  eyes, 

Looking  at  Was  from  morn  to  night, 
When  the  beauteous  Now,  the  divine  To  Be, 

Woo  with  their  charms  our  living  sight  ? 
Why  should  we  hear  but  echoes  dull, 
"When  the  world  of  sound,  so  beautiful, 

Will  give  us  music  of  our  own  ? 
Why  in  the  darkness  should  we  grope, 
When  the  sun,  in  heaven's  resplendent  cope, 

Shines  as  bright  as  e'er  it  shone  ? 

3.  Abraham '  saw  no  brighter  stars 

Than  those  which  burn  for  thee  and  me. 
When  Homer3  heard  the  lark's  sweet  song5 
Or  night-bird's  lovelier  melody, 


1  A'  bra  ham,  the  patriarch  of  the  lie  is  supposed  to  have  been  an  Asi- 
Jews,  born  and  died  moro  than  two  atic  Greek,  though  his  birth-place, 
thousand  years  B.  C.  and  the  period  in  which  he  lived, 

2  H5'  mer,  the  most  distinguished  are  not  known. 

of  poets,  called  the  "  Father  of  Song."  *  S5ng,  see  Note  1,  p.  23. 


88  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

They  were  such  sounds  as  Shakspeare 1  heard, 
Or  Chaucer,"  when  he  blessed  the  bird  ; 
Such  lovely  sounds  as  we  can  hear. — 

4.  Great  Plato 3  saw  the  vernal  year 

Send  forth  its  tender  flowers  and  shoots, 
And  luscious  autumn  pour  its  fruits  ; 
And  we  can  see  the  lilies  blow, 
The  corn-fields  wave,  the  rivers  flow  ; 
For  us  all  bounties  of  the  earth, 
For  us  its  wisdom,  love,  and  mirth, 
If  we  daily  walk  in  the  sight  of  God, 
And  prize  the  gifts  he  has  bestowed. 

5.  We  will  not  dwell  amid  the  graves, 

Nor  in  dim  twilights  sit  alone, 
To  gaze  at  moldered  architraves,4 

Or  plinths 5  and  columns  overthrown  ; 
We  will  not  only  see  the  light 

Through  painted  windows  cobwebbed  o'er, 
Nor  know  the  beauty  of  the  night 

Save  by  the  moonbeam  on  the  floor  : 
But  in  the  presence  of  the  sun, 

Or  moon,  or  stars,  our  hearts  shall  glow ; 
We'll  look  at  nature  face  to  face, 

And  we  shall  love  because  we  know. 

6.  The  j)i*esent  needs  us.     Every  age 
Bequeams  the  next  for  heritage 
No  lazy  luxury  or  delight — 

But  strenuous  labor  for  the  right ; 
For  Now,  the  child  and  sire  of  Time, 

Demands  the  deeds  of  earnest  men 
To  make  it  better  than  the  past, 

And  stretch  the  circle  of  its  ken. 

— —         -  ■         ■  -  ■     --  — .— — ..  — ■ — ■ — ■ —  — ,        ■  ,  .  .  - 

1  See  Biographical  Sketch,  p.  383.  about  430  n.   c.,   and   died   in   his 

3  Geoffrey  Chaucer,  (cha'ser).call-  eightieth  year, 

ed  the  day-star  and  father  of  English  *  Architrave,  (ark'  i  triv),  the  part 

poetry,  born  about  1328,  and  died  in  of  a  roof  which  rests  on  the  top  of  a 

1400.     His  great  work  is  "  The  Can-  column,  designed   to   represent  the 

terbury  Tales."  beam  which  supports  the  roof. 

8  Pla'  to,  a  very  celebrated  philos-  b  Plinth,  a  flat,  round,  or  square 

opher  of  ancient  Greece,  was  born  baso  or  foundation  for  a  column. 


A    GOLDEN    COPPERSMITH.  89 

Now  is  a  fact  that  men  deplore, 
Though  it  might  bless  them  evermore, 
Would  they  but  fashion  it  aright : 
Tis  ever  new,  'tis  ever  bright. 

7.       Time,  nor  Eternity,  hath  seen 
A  repetition  of  delight 

In  all  its  phases  :  ne'er  hath  been 
For  men  or  angels  that  which  is  ; 

And  that  which  is  hath  ceased  to  be 
Ere  we  have  breathed  it,  and  its  place 

Is  lost  in  the  Eternity. 

But  Now  is  ever  good  and  fair, 

Of  the  Infinitude  the  heir, 

And  we  of  it.     So  let  us  live 

That  from  the  Past  we  mav  receive 

Light  for  the  Now — from  Now  a  joy 

That  Fate  nor  Time  shall  e'er  destroy.  Mackay. 

Chakles  Mackay,  L.L.D.,  a  British  poet  and  journalist,  was  born  in  Perth, 
1813.  He  was  editor  of  the  Morning  Chronicle  for  live  years,  and  of  the  Glasgow 
Argus  for  three.  He  is  an  author  of  considerable  fame,  ranking  among  the  first 
of  the  present  British  poets,  and  still  writes  for  the  Illustrated  London  News. 

III. 
5.     A    GOLDEN    COPPERSMITH. 

BASEL  GAVRELOFF  MARINE,  a  Russian  crown-slave,  and 
by  trade  a  coppersmith,  was,  at  the  beginning  of  March, 
returning  to  St.  Petersburg  from  visiting  his  family  at  his  native 
village.  He  arrived  at  Mos'cow  on  the  night  of  the  eleventh, 
with  ten  of  his  companions  ;  and  as  the  railway  train  was  al- 
ready gone,  they  were  obliged  to  pass  the  night  there,  and  re- 
main till  three  the  next  afternoon. 

2.  "The  villagers  are  curious,"  Marine  himself  relates,  "and 
as  we  had  never  been  at  Moscow  before,  we  determined  to  see 
all  the  curiosities  of  that  ancient  town.  "We  entered  the  Cathe- 
dral of  the  Assumption,  and  kissed  all  its  holy  relics.  We 
ascended  to  the  top  of  the  belfry  of  dTvan-Ycliky,  and  then  pro- 
ceeded to  the  Bird-market.  Here  we  heard  that  a  terrible  fire  was 
raging — that  the  Great  Theater  was  burning.  As  it  was  only 
noon,  we  determined  to  be  spectators,  and  hastened  to  the  spot." 

3.  They  arrived  just  as  the  fire  was  at  its  height  ;  the  theater 


90  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

burnt  from  the  interior,  and  the  flames  spread  rapidly,  bursting 
from  the  roof  and  the  windows  in  savage  fury.  At  the  time  the 
fire  broke  out,  three  workmen  were  engaged  at  the  top  of  the 
building  :  it  gained  upon  them  so  fast,  they  had  only  time  from 
a  window  to  reach  the  roof  ;  when  they  frantically  rushed  about 
without  hope  of  escape,  surrounded  by  the  flames,  which  each 
moment  gained  upon  them.  Two  of  them  in  wild  despair  threw 
themselves  from  the  roof,  and  were  killed  on  the  pavement  below. 

4.  The  third  remained  ;  and,  suffocating  with  the  smoke, 
screamed  for  assistance  in  a  manner  that  struck  agony  in  the 
hearts  of  all  who  heard  hini.  His  death  seemed  inevitable. 
There  was  not  a  ladder  of  sufficient  length  to  reach  the  roof  of 
the  building,  and  the  miserable  man  had  the  alternative  of  per- 
ishing by  the  flames  or  leaping  down,  as  his  comrades  had  done. 
But  even  in  this  extremity  his  confidence  did  not  forsake  him, 
and  he  sought  refuse  on  that  side  where  the  wind  blew  the 
flames  away  from  him.  Marine  and  his  companions  all  this 
time  were  spectators  of  the  scene.  "  I  held  my  tongue,"  said 
Marine,  "but  my  heart  beat  painfully,  and  I  asked  myself  how  I 
could  save  this  poor  soul." 

5.  "  Companions,"  cried  the  brave  fellow,  suddenly,  "  wait  for 
me  here,  while  I  try  and  save  that  man."  His  comrades  looked 
at  him  with  surprise,  but  without  dissuading  him  from  his  pur- 
pose. "  God  be  with  you,"  said  they,  "  for  it  is  a  good  deed  you 
are  about  to  do."  Without  losing  another  moment,  Marine  ap- 
proached the  authorities  present,  and  solicited  permission  to  try 
and  rescue  the  man  from  the  frightful  death  which  menaced  him. 

G.  Permission  obtained,  he  took  off  his  cap  and  sheepskin  coat, 
and  confided  them  to  the  care  of  the  police.  Accompanied  by  his 
brother,  and  provided  with  a  stout  cord,  he  rushed  to  a  ladder 
that  was  placed  against  the  wall,  but  which  was  very  far  from 
reaching  the  roof.  Marine  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross,  and  be- 
gan to  ascend.  When  he  reached  the  summit,  he  fastened  the 
cord  around  his  waist,  and  once  more  devoutly  crossing  himself, 
began  to  climb  one  of  the  pipes  that  led  from  the  roof. 

7.  The  crowd  below,  breathless  with  astonishment  and  fear, 
eagerly  watched  each  movement.  Around  him  the  flames  were 
playing  with  intense  fury  ;  and  above  the  terrible  noise  of  the 
falling  timbers  were  heard  the  fearful  shrieks  of  the  unfortunate 
man  ;  who,  though  he  saw  assistance  coming  to  him,  dreaded  it 


A    GOLDEN    COPPERSMITn.  91 

might  be  too  late.  Nothing  daunted,  Marine  continued  his  per- 
ilous ascent'.  "It  was  cold,"  said  ho,  "and  there  was  a  terrible 
wind,  but  yet  I  felt  it  not ;  for,  from  the  moment  I  determined 
upon  trying-to  save  the  follow,  my  heart  was  on  fire,  and  I  was 
like  a  furnace."  His  burning  hands  kept  continually  sticking  to 
the  frozen  pipes,  which  somewhat  retarded  his  progress  ;  but 
still  he  courageously  continued  his  way.  "The  pipe  cracked," 
said  he,  "  it  was  no  longer  firm — this  dear  pipe  ;  but  happily  I 
had  arrived  at  the  cornice,  where  there  was  foot-room." 

8.  His  brother,  who  had  remained  all  this  time  on  the  ladder, 
had  made  a  hook  fast  to  one  end  of  the  cord.  Marine  passed 
it  to  the  man  on  the  roof,  and  desired  him  to  fasten  it  somehow 
securely  ;  this  he  did  by  fixing  it  round  one  of  the  ornaments  of 
the  cornice.  Marine  doubled  it,  to  make  it  more  secure,  and 
then  made  him  slide  down  the  pipe,  holding  the  cord  in  his 
hand,  and  his  knees  firmly  round  the  pipe — himself  giving  the 
example.  At  the  moment  Marine  reached  the  ladder,  and  tho 
man  ho  had  so  nobly  preserved  was  seen  to  glide  down  in  safety, 
a  remarkable  movement  was  manifested  by  the  crowd — a  move- 
ment truly  Russian — all  heads  were  simulta/neously  uncovered, 
and  all  hands  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross. 

9.  When  Marine  reached  the  ground,  tho  man  was  already 
half-way  down  the  ladder,  and  out  of  all  danger.  "  I  had  hardly 
reached  the  ground,"  relates  Marine,  "  when  a  gentleman,  in  a 
cloak  and  military  casque,  approached  me,  and  gave  me  twenty- 
five  silver  rubles." '  A  great  number  of  others  surrounded  him, 
and  each  gave  him  according  to  his  means — some  ten  kopecks2 
silver,  others  a  ruble,  and  some  only  copper.  "  Thanks,  brave 
man !"  was  cried  on  all  sides  ;  "you  are  a  courageous  and  good 
Christian  ;  and  may  G6d  long  grant  you  health,  and  bless  you!" 

10.  "  What  became  of  the  man  I  rescued,"  said  Marine,  "  I  do 
not  know  ;  but  that  is  not  my  affair.  Thanks  to  God,  lie  is 
saved..  A  gentleman — an  aid-de-camp3 — came  to  me,  gave  me 
a  ticket,  and  took  me  in  his  sledge  to  the  office  of  the  Chan- 
cellerie,  where  he  wrote  down  all  that  had  taken  place."  During 
this  time  Marine  did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mind  ;  he  was  uiily 


'Ruble,  (rS'bl),   a  Russian   coin  3  Aid-de-camp,     (ad' de  king),    a 

about  the  value  of  seventy-five  cents,  general's  aid  ;  an  officer  selected  by 

7  Ko'  peck,  a  Russian  coin  worth  a  general  officer  to  assist  him  in  his 

about  two  thirds  of  a  cent.  militarv  duties. 


02  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

anxious  about  one  thing — that  the  railway  should  not  leave  with- 
out him.  At  three  o'clock  he  was  in  the  wagon ;  and,  on  Friday, 
the  thirteenth,  he  arrived  at  his  destination,  where  he  was  waited 
for  by  his  master,  Monsieur x  Flottoff. 

11.  He  requested  permission  for  one  day's  leave  to  visit  his 
aunt,3  who  kept  a  small  shop  in  the  Vassili  Ostroff,  which  was 
readily  granted  ;  when,  leaving  her  to  return  home,  he  was  as- 
tonished at  being  called  to  the  house  of  the  Grand  Master  of  the 
Police,  who  accompanied  him  to  the  palace.  The  courage  of 
which  he  had  so  lately  given  so  strong  a  proof,  had  been  brought 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  Emperor,  who  desired  to  see  him. 
Never  had  he  thought,  even  in  his  wildest  dreams,  that  such 
an  honor  would  be  accorded  to  him,  a  simple  man  of  the  people. 

12.  The  Emperor  received  Marine  in  his  cabinet,  and,  with 
the  greatest  kindness,  said,  "  Marine,  I  thank  thee  for  the  good 
and  great  action  thou  hast  performed  ;  but  I  wish  to  hear  from 
thy  own  mouth  how,  with  God's  assistance,  thou  didst  it."  Ma- 
rine related  the  adventure  to  him  in  his  own  simple  manner, 
and  when  he  had  finished,  the  Czar,3  who  had  listened  to  him 
with  the  greatest  attention,  embraced  him,  and  said  :  "  My  son, 
may  God  bless  you !  and  remember,  if  you  ever  stand  in  need  of 
my  assistance,  come  to  me  and  it  shall  be  accorded  you."  The 
Emperor  then  presented  him  with  a  medal  and  one  hundred  and 
fifty  silver  rubles.  Marine  left  the  Emperor's  presence  a  happy 
man. 

IV. 

6.     NOBLE    REVENGE. 

A  YOUNG  officer  (in  what  army  no  matter)  had  so  far  forgot, 
ten  himself,  in  a  moment  of  irritation,  as  to  strike  a  private 
soldier,  full  of  personal  dignity  (as  sometimes  happens  in  all 
ranks),  and  distinguished  for  his  courage.  The  inex'orable4 
laws  of  military  discipline  forbade  to  the  injured  soldier  any 
practical  redress — he  could  look  for  no  retaliation  by  acts. 

2.  "Words  only  were  at  his  command,  and,  in  a  tumult  of  in- 
dignation, as  he  turned  away,  the  soldier  said  to  his  officer  that 

1  Monsieur,  (mo  ser'),  Sir ;  Mr.  <  In  ex'  o  ra  tie,   not   to   be   per- 

'  Aunt,  (ant),  suaded   or    moved    by   entreaty    or 

•  Czar,  (zar),  emperor.  prayer  ;  unyielding  ;  unchangeable. 


NOBLE    REVENUE.  <j;j 

he  would  "  make  him  repent  it."  This,  wearing  the  shape  of  a 
menace,  naturally  rekindled  the  officer's  anger,  and  intercepted 
any  disposition  which  might  be  rising  within  him  toward  a  sen- 
timent of  remorse  ;  and  thus  the  irritation  between  the  two 
young  men  grew  hotter  than  before. 

3.  Some  weeks  after  this  a  partial  action  took  place  with  the 
enemy.  Suppose  yourself  a  spectator,  and  looking  down  into  a 
valley  occupied  by  the  two  armies.  They  arc  facing  each  other, 
you  see,  in  martial  array.  But  it  is  no  more  than  a  skirmish 
which  is  going  on  ;  in  the  course  of  which,  however,  an  occasion 
suddenly  arises  for  a  desperate  service.  A  redoubt,  which  has 
fallen  into  the  enemy's  hands,  must  be  recaptured  at  any  price, 
and  under  circumstances  of  all  but  hopeless  difficulty. 

4.  A  strong  party  has  volunteered  for  the  service  ;  there  is  a 
cry  for  somebody  to  head  them  ;  you  see  a  soldier  step  out  from 
the  ranks  to  assume  this  dangerous  leadership  ;  the  party  moves 
rapidly  forward  ;  in  a  few  minutes  it  is  swallowed  up  from  your 
eyes  in  clouds  of  smoke  ;  for  one  half l  hour,  from  behind  these 
clouds  you  receive  hieroglyphic3  reports  of  bloody  strife — fierce 
repeating  signals,  flashes  from  the  guns,  rolling  musketry,  and  ex- 
ulting hurrahs 3  advancing  or  receding,  slackening  or  redoubling. 

5.  At  length  all  is  over  ;  the  redoubt  has  been  recovered  ; 
that  which  was  lost  is  found  again  ;  the  jewel  which  had  been 
made  captive  is  ransomed  with  blood.  Crimsoned  with  glorious 
gore,  the  wreck  of  the  conquering  party  is  relieved,  and  at  lib- 
erty to  return.     From  the  river  you  see  it  ascending. 

6.  The  plume-crested  officer  in  command  rushes  forward,  with 
his  left  hand  raising  his  hat  in  homage  to  the  blackened  frag- 
ments of  what  once  was  a  flag,  whilst  with  his  right  lurnd  he 
seizes  that  of  the  leader,  though  no  more  than  a  private  from 
the  ranks.  That  perplexes  you  not ;  mystery  you  see  none4  in 
that.  For  distinctions  of  order  perish,  ranks  are  confounded  ; 
"high  and  low"  are  words  without  a  meaning,  and  to  wreck 
goes  every  notion  or  feeling  that  divides  the  noble  from  the 
noble,  or  the  brave  man  from  the  brave. 

7.  But  wherefore1  is  it  that  now,  when  suddenly  they  wheel 

1  Half,  (haf).  3  Hurrahs,    (  h6r  raz' ),     huzzas  ; 

3  Hr  e  ro  glyph'  ic,  expressive  of  shouts  of  joy  or  exultation. 
meaning  hy  characters,  pictures,  or        *  None,  (nun). 
figures.  'Wherefore,  (wh&r'for). 


94  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

into  mutual  recognition,1  suddenly  they  pause?     This  soldier, 

this  officer — who  are  they  ?     O  reader !  once  before  they  had 

stood  face  to  face — the  soldier  that  was  struck,  the  officer  that 

struck  him.     Once  again2  they  are  meeting;  and  the  gaze  of 

armies  is  upon  them.     If  for  a  moment  a  doubt  divides  them, 

in  a  moment  the  doubt  has  perished.     One  glance  exchanged 

between  them  publishes  the  forgiveness  that  is  sealed  forever. 

8.  As  one  who  recovers  a  brother  whom  he  has  accounted 

dead,  the  officer  sprang  forward,  threw  his  arms  around  the 

neck  of  the  soldier,  and  kissed  him,  as  if  he  were  some  martyr 

glorified  by  that  shadow  of  death  from  which  he  was  returning; 

whilst,  on  his  part,  the  soldier,  stepping  back,  and  carrying  his 

open  hand  through  the  beautiful  motions  of  the  military  salute 

to  a  superior,  makes  this  immortal  answer — that  answer  which 

shut  up  forever  the  memory  of  the  indignity  offered  to  him, 

even  while  for  the  last  time  alluding  to  it  :  "Sir,"  he  said,  "I 

told  you  before,  that  I  would  make  you  repent  it." 

Thomas  de  Quincey. 

TnoMAS  de  Quincet  was  born  at  Manchester,  England,  on  the  15th  of  Au- 
gust, 1785.  He  passed  his  childhood  in  rural  retirement.  He  was  matriculated 
at  Oxford,  at  Christmas,  1803,  being  then  in  his  nineteenth  year,  where  he  re- 
mained till  1808.  He  resided  for  twenty  years,  between  1S08  and  1829,  among 
the  lakes  and  mountains  of  Westmoreland,  and  occupied  Wordsworth's  cottage 
seven  years  of  the  time. '  De  Quinccy's  first  work,  "  Confessions  of  an  English 
Opium-Eater,"  which  appeared  in  the  London  Magazine,  in  1S21,  and  was 
printed  in  book  form  in  1822,  was  immediately  and  immensely  popular.  It 
passed  through  several  editions  in  Europe  and  this  country,  and  at  once  placed 
its  author  in  the  front  rank  of  vivid  and  powerful  writers.  After  this  period,  his 
numerous  contributions  to  the  periodical  press  were  paid  for  at  a  large  price. 
He  has  written  upon  a  wider  and  more  diversified  range  of  subjects  than  any 
other  author  of  his  time.  He  is  noted  for  his  original  genius,  stores  of  learn- 
ing, depth  of  insight,  and  subtlety  of  thought.  His  matter  is  always  abundant 
and  good.  He  has  acquired  a  style  of  the  rarest  brilliancy  and  richness,  but  his 
force  is  often  diminished  by  his  capricious  use  of  words,  and  the  weary  length 
of  his  digressions. 

V. 

7.     BEAUTY. 

THE  high  and  divine  beauty  which  can  be  loved  without 
effeminacy,  is  that  which  is  found  in  combination  with  the 
human  will,  and  never  separate.     Beauty  is  the  mark  God  sets 

1  Recognition,  (reV  og  nlsh'  un),  ed  or  confessed ;  act  of  knowing  again, 
acknowledgment :  knowledge  avow-         ■  Again,  (4  g£n'). 


BEAUTY.  9/3 

upon  virtue.    Every  natural  action  is  graceful.    Every  heroic  act 
is  also  decent,  and  causes  the  place  and  the  bystanders  to  shine. 

2.  Wo  are  taught  by  great  actions  that  the  universe  is  the 
property  of  every  individual  in  it.  Every  rational  creature  has 
all  nature  for  his  dowry  and  estate.  It  is  his,  if  he  will.  He 
may  divest  himself  of  it ;  he  may  creep  into  a  corner,  and  abdi- 
cate his  kingdom,  as  must  men  do  ;  but  he  is  entitled  to  the 
world  by  his  constitution.  In  proportion  to  the  energy  of  his 
thought  and  will,  he  takes  up  the  world  into  himself.  "  All 
those  things  for  which  men  plow,  build,  or  sail,  obey  virtue," 
said  an  ancient  historian.  "  The  winds  and  waves,"  said  Gib- 
bon,1 "are  alway  on  the  side  of  the  ablest  navigators."  »So  arc 
the  sun  and  moon  and  all  the  stars  of  heaven. 

3.  When  a  noble  act  is  done, — perchance  in  a  scene  of  great 
natural  beauty  ;  when  Leonidas'  and  his  three  hundred  martyrs 
consume  one  day  in  dying,  and  the  sun  and  moon  come  each 
and  look  at  them  once  in  the  steep  defile  of  Thermopylae  ;  when 
Arnold  Winkelried,a  in  the  high  Alps,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
avalanche,4  gathers  in  his  side  a  sheaf  of  Austrian  spears  to 
break  the  hue  for  his  comrades  ;  are  not  these  heroes  entitled 
to  add  the  beauty  of  the  scene  to  the  beauty  of  the  deed  ? 

4.  AVhcn  the  bark  of  Columbus 5  nears  the  shore  of  America, 
— before  it,  the  beach  lined  with  savages,  fleeing  out  of  all  their 
huts  of  cane — the  sea  behind,  and  the  purple0  mountains  of  the 

1  Edward  Gibbon,  one  of  the  most  no  other  means  of  breaking  the 
celebrated  historians  of  any  age  and  heavy-armed  lines  of  the  Austrian?, 
country,  author  of  the  "  Decline  and  he  run  with  extended  arms,  and. 
Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,"  was  gathering  as  many  of  their  spears  as 
born  at  Putney,  Surrey,  England,  he  could  grasp,  thus  opened  a  | 
April  27th,  1737,  and  died  January  sage  for  his  countrymen,  who,  with 
16th,  1794.  hatchets  and  hammers,  slaughter..! 

2  Le  5n'i  das,  the  first  of  the  name,  the  mailed  men-at-arms,  and  won 
king  of  Sparta,  immortalized  by  his  the  victory. 

glorious  defense  of  the  pass  of  Ther-  4  Avalanche,  (&v\u  lanshA  a  mow- 

mopyla?  against  Xerxes,  reigned  from  slip  ;  a  vast   body   of  ice,   snow,  or 

491  to  480  B.  C.  earth,  sliding  down  a  mountain. 

3  Arnold  Winkelried,  (wingk'  el-  5  Christopher  Colum'bus,  the  dis- 
ret),  a  Switzer  of  the  fourteenth  cen-  covercr  of  the  New  World,  was  born 
tury,  the  glory  of  whose  heroic,  vol-  in  Gen'oii,  about  the  year  1435  or 
untary  death,  is  not  surpassed  in  the  1436,  and  died  at  Seville,  Spain,  on 
annals  of  history.  In  the  battle  of  the  20th  of  May,  1506. 
Sempach,  perceiving  that  there  was  c  Purple,  (peV  pi). 


96  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Indian '  Ar'cMpel'ago  around,— can  we  separate  the  man  from 
the  living  picture  ?  Does  not  the  New  World  clothe  his  form 
with  her  palm-groves  and  savannahs  as  fit  drapery  ? 

5.  Ever  does  natural  beauty  steal  in  like  air,  and  envelop 
great  actions.  When  Sir  Harry  Vane2  was  dragged  up  the 
Tower-hill,  sitting  on  a  sled,  to  suffer  death  as  the  champion  of 
the  English  laws,  one  of  the  multitude  cried  out  to  him,  "You 
never  sat  on  so  glorious  a  seat."  Charles  II.,  to  intimidate  the 
citizens  of  London,  caused  the  patriot  Lord  Russell3  to  be  drawn 
in  an  open  coach,  through  the  principal  streets  of  the  city,  on 
his  way  to  the  scaffold.  "  But,"  to  use  the  simple  narrative  of 
his  biographer,  "the  multitude  imagined  they  saw  liberty  and 
virtue  sitting  by  his  side." 

6.  In  private  places,  among  sordid  objects,  an  act  of  truth  or 
heroism  seems  at  once  to  draw  to  itself  the  sky  as  its  temple, 
the  sun  as  its  candle.  Nature  stretcheth  out  her  arms  to  em- 
brace man,  only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  greatness.  Willingly 
does  she  follow  his  steps  with  the  rose  and  the  violet,  and  bend 
her  lines  of  grandeur  and  grace  to  the  decoration  of  her  darling 
child.  Only  let  his  thoughts  be  of  equal  scope,  and  the  frame 
will  suit  the  picture.  A  virtuous  man  is  in  unison  with  her 
works,  and  makes  the  central  figure  of  the  visible  sphere. 

Emerson. 

Ralph  Waldo  Emekson,  a  son  of  the  Rev.  William  Emerson,  was  born  in 
Boston,  about  the  year  1803,  took  his  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  at  Harvard  Col- 
lege in  1821,  studied  theology,  and,  in  1829,  was  ordained  the  colleague  of  the 
lute  Rev.  Henry  Ware,  jr.,  over  the  second  Unitarian  church  of  his  native  city; 
but  subsequently,  becoming  independent  of  the  control  of  set  regulations  of  re- 
ligious worship,  retired  to  Concord,  where,  in  1835,  he  purchased  the  house  in 
which  he  has  since  resided,  except  while  absent  on  two  excursions  in  Europe, 
during  the  latter  of  which,  in  1847,  he  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  in  London, 
and  other  parts  of  England.  He  has  been  a  contributor  to  "  The  North  American 
Review  "  and  "  The  Christian  Examiner,"  and  was  two  years  editor  of  "  The  Dial," 


1  Indian,  (Ind'  yan).  ment,  opposed  the  king,  became  one 

2  Sir  Henry  Vane,  a  republican  of  the  council  of  state  on  the  estab- 
and  religionist,  was  born  at  Hadlow,  lishment  of  the  commonwealth,  and, 
In  Kent,  England,  in  1612.  He  was  after  the  restoration,  was  condemned 
among  the  earliest  of  those  whom  for  treason,  and  beheaded  June 
religious  opinion  induced  to  seek  a  14,  1GG2.  He  wrote  several  works, 
home  in  America.    He  was  appointed  chiefly  religious. 

governor  of  Massachusetts  in  1635,  s  Lord  William  Russell,  born  on 

returned  to  England  the  following  the  20th  of  September,  1639,  and  be- 

year,  married  there,  entered  parlia.  headed  on  the  21st  of  July,  1683. 


SABBATH    MORNINU. 


97 


established  in  Boston,  by  Mr.  Ripley,  in  1840.  lie  published  several  orations  and 
addresses  in  ISoT-oS-oD-IO,  and  in  1841  the  first  series  of  his  "  Essays,"  in  1844 
the  second  series  of  his  "Essays,"  in  1840  a  collection  of  his  "  Poems,"  in  1S51 
"Representative  Men,"  in  1852,  in  connection  with  W.  II.  Channing  and  Janus 
Freeman  Clarke,  "Memoirs  of  Margaret  Fuller  Ossoli,"  and  in  1856  "English 
Trait?."  Mr.  Emerson  is  an  able  lecturer,  a  most  distinguished  essayist,  and  an 
eminent  poet.  He  perceives  the  evils  in  society,  the  falsehoods  of  popular  opin- 
ions, and  the  unhappy  tendencies  of  common  feelings.  He  is  an  original  and 
independent  thinker,  and  commands  attention  both  by  the  novelty  of  his  view9 
and  the  graces  and  peculiarities  of  his  style. 


H 


SECTION    III. 
I. 

8.     SABBATH    MORNING. 

OVv   still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labor,  hushed 


The  plowboy's  whistle,  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
Tho  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded '  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers, 
That  yester-morn  bloomed,  waving  in  the  breeze. 
Sounds,  the  most  faint,  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  cloud. 

2.  To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas, 

The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  the  dale  ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  with  heaven-tuned  song  ;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen  ; 
Whilo  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals, 
The  voice  of  psalms, — the  simple  song  of  praise. 

8.  With  dove-like  wings,  Peace  O'er  yon  village  broods  : 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests  ;  and  the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased  ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful,  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 

1  TSd'  ded,  spread  out,  or  turned  and  scattered  for  drying. 

5 


98  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man, 

Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 

Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large  ; 

And  as  his  stiff,  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls, 

His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

4.  But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 

Hail,  Sabbath !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day. 

On  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doomed 

To  eat  his  joyless  bread  lonely, — the  ground 

Both  seat  and  board,  screened  from  the  winter's  cold 

And  summer's  heat  by  neighboring  hedge  or  tree  ; 

But  on  this  day,  embosomed  in  his  home, 

He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves  ; 

With  those  he  loves,  he  shares  the  heart-felt  joy 

Of  giving  thanks  to  God, — not  thanks  of  form, 

A  word  and  a  grimace',  but  reverently, 

With  covered  face,  and  upward,  earnest  eye. 

5.  Hail,  Sabbath !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  : 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke  ; 
WTiile,  wandering  slowly  up  the  river's  side, 
He  meditates  on  Him,  wrhose  power  he  marks 

In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough, 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  its  roots  ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys, 
With  elevated  joy,  each  rural  charm, 
He  hopes,  yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope, — 
That  heaven  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end. 

6.  But  now  his  steps  a  welcome  sound  recalls  : 
Solemn  the  knell,  from  yonder  ancient  pile, 
Fills  all  the  air,  inspiring  joyful  awe  : 

Slowly  the  throng  moves  o'er  the  tomb-paved  ground  ; 
The  aged  man,  the  bowed  down,  the  blind 
Led  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  who  breathes 
With  pain,  and  eyes  the  new-made  grave,  well-pleased  ;  - 
These,  mingled  with  the  young,  the  gay,  approach 
The  house  of  God — these,  spite  of  all  their  ills, 
A  glow  of  gladness  feel  :  with  silent  praise 
They  enter  in  ;  a  placid  stillness  reigns, 


SABBATH    MORNING.  [)<j 

Until  the  man  of  God,  -worthy  the  name, 

Opens  the  book,  and  reverentially 

The  stated  portion  reads.     A  pause  ensues. 

7.  The  organ  breathes  its  distant  thunder  notes, 
Then  swells  into  a  diapason  '  full  : 
The  people  rising  sing,  "  with  harp,  with  harp, 
And  voice  of  psalms  ;"  harmoniously  attuned, 
The  various  voices  blend  ;  the  long-drawn  aisles, 
At  every  close,  the  lingering  strain  prolong. 
And  now  the  tubes  a  softened  stop  controls  : 
In  softer  harmony  the  people  join, 
While  liquid  whispers  from  yon  orphan  band 
Recall  the  soul  from  adoration's  trance, 
And  fill  the  eye  with  pity's  gentle  tears. 

8    Again  the  organ-peal,  loud,  rolling,  meets 

The  halleluiahs '  of  the  choir.     Sublime 

A  thousand  notes  symphoniously  ascend, 

As  if  the  whole  were  cne,  suspended  high 

■   In  air,  soaring  heavenward  :  afar  they  float, 

Wafting  glad  tidings  to  the  sick  man's  couch  : 

Raised  on  his  arm,  he  lists  the  cadence  close, 

Yet  thinks  he  hears  it  still :  his  heart  is  cheered  ; 

He  smiles  on  death  ;  but  ah !  a  wish  will  rise — 

"  Would  I  were  now  beneath  that  echoing  roof ! 

No  lukewarm  accents  from  my  lips  should  flow  ; 

My  heart  would  sing  ;  and  many  a  sabbath-day 

My  steps  should  thither  turn  ;  or,  wandering  f:ir 

In  solitary  paths,  where  wild  flowers  blow, 

There  would  I  bless  His  name  who  led  me  forth 

From  death's  dark  vale,  to  walk  amid  those  swects-i 

Who  gives  the  bloom  of  health  once  more  to  glow 

Upon  this  cheek,  and  lights  this  languid  eye." 

James  Graiiame. 

"Rev  James  Graiiame  was  born  in  Glasgow,  Scotland,  in  17o7>.  He  studied 
law  and  practiced  at  the  Scottish  bar  several  years,  but  afterward  took  orders  in 
the  Church  of  England,  and  was  successively  curate  of  Shipton,  in  Gloucester- 
shire, and  of  Sedgetield,  in  the  county  of  Durham.     Ill  health  compelled  him  to 


1  Diapason,  (dlva  p&'zon),  in  music,     an  octave  apart :  harmony, 
the  octave  or  interval  which  includes         3  Halleluiah,  (haP  le  lu'  ya),  praise 
all   the  tones ;  concord,  as  of  notes    ye  Jehovah  ;  give  praises  to  God. 


100  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

abandon  his  curacy  when  his  virtues  and  talents  had  attracted  notice  and  ren- 
dered him  a  popular  and  useful  preacher ;  and  on  revisiting  Scotland,  he  died 
September  14th,  1811.  His  works  consist  of  "  Mary,  Queen  of  Scotland,"  a  dra- 
matic poem,  published  in  1801 ;  "  The  Sabbath,"  from  which  the  above  selection 
is  taken;  "Sabbath  Walks,"  "Biblical  Pictures,"  "The  Birds  of  Scotland,"  and 
"British  Georgics,"  all  in  blank  verse.  "The  Sabbath"  is  the  best  of  his  pro- 
ductions. The  poet  was  modest  and  devout,  though  sometimes  gloomy  in  his 
seriousness.  His  prevailing  tone,  however,  is  that  of  implicit  trust  in  the  good- 
ness of  God,  and  enjoyment  in  his  creation. 

n. 

9.     MATERNAL    AFFECTION. 

\  \  7  OMAN'S  *  charms  are  certainly  many  and  powerful.  The 
.  V  V  expanding  rose  just  bursting  into  beauty  lias  an  irresisti- 
ble bewitchingness  ;  the  blooming  bride  led  triumphantly  to  the 
hyxmene'al  altar  awakens  admiration  and  interest,  and  the  blush 
of  her  cheek  fills  with  delight ;  but  the  charm  of  maternity  i3 
more  sublime  than  all  these. 

2.  Heaven  has  imprinted  in  the  mother's  face  something  be- 
yond this  world,  something  which  claims  kindred  with  the  skies, 
— the  angelic  smile,  the  tender  look,  the  waking,  watchful  eye, 
which  keeps  its  fond  vigil  over  her  slumbering  babe. 

3.  These  are  objects  which  neither  the  pencil  nor  the  chisel 
can  touch,  which  poetry  fails  to  exalt,  which  the  most  eloquent 
tongue  in  vain  would  eulogize,  and  on  which  all  description  be- 
comes ineffective.  In  the  heart  of  man  lies  this  lovely  picture  ; 
it  lives  in  his  sympathies  ;  it  reigns  in  his  affections  ;  his  eye 
looks  round  in  vain  for  such  another  object  on  earth. 

4.  Maternity,  ecstatic2  sound!  so  twined  round  our  hearts, 
that  they  must  cease  to  throb  ere  we  forget  it !  'tis  our  first 
love  ;  'tis  part  of  our  religion.  Nature  has  set  the  mother  upon 
such  a  pinnacle,  that  our  infant  eyes  and  arms  are  first  uplifted 
to  it ;  we  cling  to  it  in  manhood  ;  we  almost  worship  it  in  old  age. 

5.  He  who  can  enter  an  apartment,  and  behold  the  tender 
babe  feeding  on  its  mother's  beauty — nourished  by  the  tide  of 
life  which  flows  through  her  generous  veins,  without  a  panting 
bosom  and  a  grateful  eye,  is  no  man,  but  a  monster.  Ho  who 
can  approach  the  cradle  of  sleeping  innocence  without  thinking 
that  "  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !"  or  see  the  fond  parent 

1  Woman,  (wum'  an).  side   one's   self ;    delightful   beyond 

*  Ec  stat'  ic,    rendering    one    be-     measure 


THE    GOOD    WIFE.  10J 

hang  over  its  beauties,  and  half  retain  her  breath  lest  she  should 
break  its  slumbers,  without  a  veneration  beyond  all  common 
feeling,  is  to  be  avoided  in  every  intercourse  of  life,  and  is  fit 
only  for  the  shadow  of  darkness  and  the  solitude  of  the  desert. 

ni. 

10.     THE    GOOD    WIFE. 

THE  heart  of  a  man,  with  whom  affection  i3  not  a  name,  and 
love  a  mere  passion  of  the  hour,  yearns  toward  the  quiet  of 
a  home,  as  toward  the  goal  of  his  earthly  joy  and  hope.  And 
as  you  fasten  there  your  thought,  an  indulgent,  yet  dreamy  fancy 
paints  the  loved  image  that  is  to  adorn  it,  and  to  make  it  sacred. 

2.  She  is  there  to  bid  you — God  speed !  and  an  adieu,  that 
hangs  like  music  on  your  car,  as  j'ou  go  out  to  the  every-day 
labor  of  life.  At  evening,  she  is  there  to  greet  you,  as  you  come 
back  wearied  with  a  day's  toil ;  and  her  look  so  full  of  gladness, 
cheats  you  of  your  fatigue  ;  and  she  steals  her  arm  around  you, 
with  a  soul  of  welcome,  that  beams  like  sunshine  on  her  brow 
and  that  fills  your  eye  with  tears  of  a  twin  gratitude — to  her, 
and  Heaven. 

3.  She  is  not  unmindful  of  those  old-fashioned  virtues  of  clean- 
liness and  of  order,  which  give  an  air  of  quiet,  and  which  secure 
content.  Your  wants  arc  all  anticipated  ;  the  fire  is  burning 
brightly  ;  the  clean  hearth  flashes  under  the  joyous  blaze  ;  the 
old  elbow-chair  is  in  its  place.  Your  very  airworthiness  of  nil 
this  haunts  you  like  an  accusing  spirit,  and  yet  penetrates  your 
heart  with  a  new  devotion  toward  the  loved  one  who  is  thus 
watchful  of  your  comfort. 

4.  She  is  gentle  ; — keeping  your  love,  as  she  has  won  it,  by  a 
thousand  nameless  and  modest  virtues,  which  radiate  from  her 
whole  life  and  action.  She  steals  upon  your  affections  like  a 
summer  wind  breathing  softly  over  sleeping  valleys.  She  gains 
a  mastery  over  your  sterner  nature,  by  very  contrast ;  and  wins 
you  unwittingly  to  her  lightest  wish.  And  yet  her  wishes  are 
guided  by  that  delicate  tact,  which  avoids  conflict  with  your 
manly  pride  ;  she  subdues,  by  seeming  to  yield.  By  a  singlo 
soft  word  of  appeal,  she  robs  your  vexation  of  its  anger  ;  and 
with  a  slight  touch  of  that  fair  hand,  and  one  pleading  look  of 
that  earnest  eye,  she  disarms  your  sternest  pride. 


102  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5.  She  is  kind  ; — shedding  her  kindness,  as  Heaven  sheds  dew. 
Who  indeed  could  doubt  it  ? — least  of  all,  you  who  are  living  on 
her  kindness,  day  by  day,  as  flowers  live  on  light?  There  is 
none  of  that  officious  parade,  which  blunts  the  point  of  benevo- 
lence ;  but  it  tempers  every  action  with  a  blessing. 

6.  If  trouble  has  come  upon  you,  she  knows  that  her  voice, 
beguiling  you  into  cheerfulness,  will  lay  your  fears  ;  and  as  she 
draws  her  chair  beside  you,  she  knows  that  the  tender  and  con- 
fiding way  with  which  she  takes  your  hand  and  looks  up  into 
your  earnest  face,  will  drive  away  from  your  annoyance  all  its 
weight.  As  she  lingers,  leading  off  your  thought  with  pleasant 
words,  she  knows  well  that  she  is  redeeming  you  from  care,  and 
soothing  you  to  that  sweet  calm,  which  such  home  and  such 
wife  can  alone  bestow. 

7.  And  in  sickness, — sickness  that  you  almost  covet  for  the 
sympathy  it  brings, — that  hand  of  hers  resting  on  your  fevered 
forehead,  or  those  fingers  playing  with  the  scattered  locks,  are 
more  full  of  kindness  than  the  loudest  vaunt  of  Mends  ;  and 
when  your  failing  strength  will  permit  no  more,  you  grasp  that 
cherished  hand,  with  a  fullness  of  joy,  of  thankfulness,  and  of 
love,  which  your  tears  only  can  tell. 

8.  She  is  good  ; — her  hopes  live  where  the  angels  live.  Her 
kindness  and  gentleness  are  sweetly  tempered  with  that  meek- 
ness and  forbearance  which  are  born  of  Faith.  Trust  comes  into 
her  heart  as  rivers  come  to  the  sea.  And  in  the  dark  hours  of 
doubt  and  foreboding,  you  rest  fondly  xrpon  her  buoyant  faith, 
as  the  treasure  of  your  common  life ;  and  in  your  holier  musings, 
you  look  to  that  frail  hand,  and  that  gentle  spirit,  to  lead  you 
away  from  the  vanities  of  worldly  ambition,  to  the  fullness  of 
that  joy  which  the  good  inherit.  D.  G.  Mitchell. 

Donald  G.  Mitchell  was  born  in  Norwich,  Connecticut,  April,  1822.  His 
father  was  the  pastor  of  the  Congregational  church  of  that  place,  and  his  grand- 
father a  member  of  the  first  Congress  at  Philadelphia,  and  for  many  years 
Chief-justice  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  Connecticut.  Mr.  Mitchell  graduated  in 
due  course,  at  Yale,  in  1841.  His  health  being  feeble,  he  passed  the  three  fol- 
lowing years  in  the  country,  where  he  became  much  interested  in  agriculture, 
and  wrote  a  number  cf  letters  to  the  "  Cultivator,"  at  Albany.  He  gained  a 
silver  cup  from  the  New  York  Agricultural  Society,  as  a  prize  for  a  plan  of  farm 
buildings.  He  next  crossed  the  ocean,  and  after  remaining  about  two  years  in 
Europe,  returned  home,  and  soon  after  published  "fresh  Gleanings."  In  ISoO, 
after  his  return  from  a  second  visit  to  Europe,  he  published  "  The  Battle  Sum- 
mer," containing  personal  observations  in  Paris  during  the  year  1848.  He  has 
since  published  the  "  Reveries  of  a  Bachelor,"  "  Dream  Life,"  "  Fudge  Doings," 


INFLUENCE    OF    HOME.  103 

"  }Iy  Farm  at  Edgcwood,"  "  Seven  Stories,"  "  Wet  Days  at  Edgcwood,"  and 
"Plain  Talks  on  Familiar  Subjects."  His  works  have  usually  been  well  received. 
His  style  is  quiet,  pure,  and  effective.  In  1S53,  Mr.  Mitchell  received  the  ap- 
pointment of  United  States  consul  at  Venice.  He  is  at  present  residing  in  the 
Vicinity  of  New  Haven. 

IV. 

11.     INFLUENCE    OF    HOME. 

HOME  gives  a  certain  serenity  to  the  mind,  so  that  ever/ 
thing  is  well  defined,  and  in  a  clear  atmosphere,  and  the 
lesser  beauties  brought  out  to  rejoice  in  the  pure  glow  which 
floats  over  and  beneath  them  from  the  earth  and  sky.  In  this 
state  of  mind  afflictions  come  to  us  ehas^Ticd  ;  and  if  the  wrongs 
of  the  world  cross  us  in  our  door-path,  we  put  them  aside  without 
anger.  Vices  are  about  us,  not  to  lure  us  away,  or  make  us 
morose,  but  to  remind  us  of  our  frailty  and  keep  down  our  pride. 

2.  We  are  put  into  a  right  relation  with  the  world  ;  neither 
holding  it  in  proud  scorn,  like  the  solitary  man,  nor  being  car- 
ried along  by  shifting  and  hurried  feelings,  and  vague  and  care- 
less notions  of  things,  like  the  world's  man.  We  do  not  take 
novelty  for  improvement,  or  set  up  vogue  for  a  rule  of  conduct ; 
neither  do  we  despair,  as  if  all  great  virtues  had  departed  with 
the  years  gone  by,  though  we  see  new  vices  and  frailties  taking 
growth  in  the  very  light  which  is  spreading  over  the  earth. 

3.  Our  safest  way  of  coming  into  communion  with  mankind 
is  through  our  own  household.  For  there  our  Borrow  and  regret 
at  the  failings  of  the  bad  are  in  proportion  to  our  love,  while  our 
familiar  intercourse  with  the  good  has  a  secretly  assimilating 
influence  upon  our  characters.  The  domestic  man  has  an  inde- 
pendence of  thought  which  puts  him  at  ease  in  society,  and  a 
cheerfulness  and  benevolence  of  feeling  which  seem  to  ray  out 
from  him,  and  to  diffuse  a  pleasurable  senso  over  those  near 
him,  like  a  soft,  bright  day. 

4.  As  domestic  life  strengthens  a  man's  virtue,  so  docs  it  help 
to  a  sound  judgment  and  a  right  balancing  of  things,  and  gives 
an  integrity  and  propriety  to  the  whole  character.  God,  in  his 
goodness,  has  ordained  that  virtue  should  make  its  own  enjoy- 
ment, and  that  wherever  a  vice  or  frailty  is  rooted  out,  some- 
thing should  spring  up  to  be  a  beauty  and  delight  in  its  stead. 
But  a  man  of  character  rightly  cast,  has  pleasures  at  home, 


104  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

which,  though  fitted  to  his  highest  nature,  are  common  to  him  as 
his  daily  food  ;  and  ho  moves  about  his  house  under  a  continued 
sense  of  them,  and  is  happy  almost  without  heeding  it. 

5.  "Women  have  been  called  angels  in  love-tales  and  sonnets, 
till  we  have  almost  learned  to  think  of  angels  as  little  better 
than  women.  Yet  a  man  who  knows  a  woman  thoroughly,  and 
loves  her  truly, — and  there  are  women  who  may  be  so  known 
and  loved, — will  find,  after  a  few  years,  that  his  relish  for  the 
grosser  pleasures  is  lessened,  and  that  he  has  grown  into  a  fond- 
ness for  the  intellectual  and  refined  without  an  effort,  and  al- 
most unawares. 

G.  Ho  has  been  led  on  to  virtue  through  his  pleasures  ;  and 
the  delights  of  the  eye,  and  the  gentle  play  of  that  passion  which 
is  the  most  inward  and  romantic  in  our  nature,  and  which  keeps 
much  of  its  character  amidst  the  concerns  of  life,  have  held  him 
in  a  kind  of  spiritualized  existence  :  he  shares  his  very  being 
with  one  who,  a  creature  of  this  world,  and  with  something  of 
the  world's  frailties, 

Is  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright, 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 

With  all  the  sincerity  of  a  companionship  of  feeling,  cares,  sor- 
rows, and  enjoyments,  her  presence  is  as  the  presence  of  a  purer 
being,  and  there  is  that  in  her  nature  which  seems  to  bring  him 
nearer  to  a  better  world.  She  is,  as  it  were,  linked  'to  angels, 
and  in  his  exalted  moments  he  feels  himself  held  by  the  same  tie. 

7.  In  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life,  a  woman  has  a  greater  influ- 
ence over  those  near  her  than  a  man.  While  our  feelings  are, 
for  the  most  part,  as  retired  as  anchorites,  hers  are  in  play  be- 
fore us.  We  hear  them  in  her  varying  voice  ;  we  see  them  in 
the  beautiful  and  harmonious  undulations  of  her  movements — in 
the  quick  shifting  hues  of  her  face — in  her  eye,  glad  and  bright, 
then  fond  and  suffused  ;  her  frame  is  alive  and  active  with  what 
i3  at  her  heart,  and  all  the  outward  form  speaks. 

8.  She  seems  of  a  finer  mold  than  we,  and  cast  in  a  form  of 
beauty,  which,  like  all  beauty,  acts  with  a  moral  influence  upon 
our  hearts  ;  and  as  she  moves  about  us,  we  feel  a  movement 
within  which  rises  and  spreads  gently  over  us,  harmonizing  us 
with  her  own.  And  can  any  man  listen  to  this — can  his  eye, 
day  after  day,  rest  upon  this — and  he  not  be  touched  by  it,  and 
mado  better  ? 


AN    OLD    HAUNT.  105 

9.  The  dignity  of  a  woman  lias  its  peculiar  character  ;  it  awes 
mora  than  that  of  man.  His  is  more  physical,  bearing  itself  up 
with  an  energy  of  courage  which  we  may  brave,  or  a  strength 
which  we  may  struggle  against  :  he  is  his  own  avenger,  and  wo 
may  stand  the  brunt.  A  woman's  has  nothing  of  this  force  in 
it  ;  it  is  of  a  higher  quality,  and  too  delicate  for  mortal  touch. 

Dana. 
Richard  Henry  Dana  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  on  the  loth 
of  November,  1737.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  in  1807.  He  opened  a  law-ofliee 
in  Newport,  R.  I.,  in  1811,  and  became  a  member  of  the  legislature;  but  his 
constitutional  sensitiveness  and  feeble  health  compelled  him  to  abandon  his  pro- 
fession soon  after.  For  two  years,  from  1818,  he  aided  in  editing  the  N.  A.  Re- 
view; and  in  1831  began  the  publication  of  "The  Idle  Man,"  a  periodical  in 
which  he  communicated  to  the  public  his  Tales  and  Essays.  After  the  discon- 
tinuance of  that  paper,  he  wrote  able  articles  for  several  of  the  best  periodicals 
of  the  country.  The  first  volume  of  his  poems,  containing  "  The  Burancer,"  was 
printed  i,H  1837.  An  edition  of  his  writings,  in  two  volumes,  was  published  in 
New  York  in  1850.  Mr.  Dana  at  present  passes  his  time  between  his  town  res- 
idence at  Boston  and  his  country  retirement  at  Cape  Ann,  where  he  can  indulge 
in  his  love  of  nature.  He  is  regarded  always,  by  as  many  as  have  the  honor  of 
his  acquaintance,  with  admiration  and  the  most  reverent  affection.  All  of  his 
writings  belong  to  the  permanent  literature  of  the  country,  and  yearly  find  more 
and  more  readers.  They  are  distinguished  for  profouud  philosophy,  simplo  sen- 
timent, and  pure  and  vigorous  diction. 

V. 

12.     AN    OLD    HAUNT. 

HH  HE  rippling  water,  with  its  drowsy  tone  ; 
JL      The  tall  elms,  towering  in  their  stately  pride  ; 
And — sorrow's  type — the  willow,  sad  and  lone, 
Kissing  in  graceful  woe  the  murmuring  tide  ; 

2.  The  gray  church-tower  ;  and  dimly  seen  beyond, 

The  faint  hills  gilded  by  the  parting  sun  ; 
All  were  the  same,  and  seemed  with  greeting  fond 
To  welcome  me  as  they  of  old  had  done. 

3.  And  for  a  while  I  stood  as  in  a  trance, 

On  that  loved  spot,  forgetting  toil  and  pain  ; 
Buoyant  my  limbs,  and  keen  and  bright  my  glance  : 
For  that  brief  space  I  was  a  boy  again ! 

4.  Again  with  giddy  mates  I  careless  played, 

Or  plied  the  quivering  oar,  on  conquest  bent  : 
Again,  beneath  the  tall  elms'  silent  shade, 
I  wooed  the  fair,  and  won  the  sweet  consent 


J_06  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5.  But  brief,  alas!  the  spell ;  for  suddenly 

Pealed  from  the  tower  the  old  familiar  chimes, 
And  with  their  clear,  heart-thrilling  melody, 
Awaked  the  spectral  forms  of  darker  times. 

6.  And  I  remembered  all  that  years  had  wrought : 

How  bowed  my  care-worn  frame,  how  dimmed  my  eye ! 
How  poor  the  gauds  by  Youth  so  keenly  sought ! 
How  quenched  and  dull  Youth's  aspirations  high ! 

7.  And  in  half  mournful,  half  upbraiding  host, 

Duties  neglected — high  resolves  unkept — 

And  many  a  heart  by  death  or  falsehood  lost — 

In  lightning  current  6'er  my  bosom  swept. 

8.  Then  bowed  the  stubborn  knees,  as  backward  sped 

The  self-accusing  thoughts  in  dread  array, 
And  slowly,  from  their  long-congealed  bed, 
Forced  the  remorseful  tears  their  silent  way. 

9.  Bitter,  yet  healing  drops !  in  mercy  sent, 

Like  soft  dews  falling  on  a  thirsty  plain, — 
And  ere  those  chimes  their  last  faint  notes  had  spent, 
Strengthened  and  calmed,  I  stood  erect  again. 

10.  Strengthened,  the  task  allotted  to  fulfill ; 

Calmed  the  thick-coming  sorrows  to  endure  ; 
Fearful  of  naught  but  of  my  own  frail  will. — 
In  His  almighty  strength  and  aid  secure. 

11.  For  a  sweet  voice  had  whispered  hope  to  me, — 

Had  through  my  darkness  shed  a  kindly  ray  : 
It  said  :  "  The  past  is  fixed  immutably, 
Yet  is  there  comfort  in  the  coming  day !" 

VI. 

13.     THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

PART    FIRST. 

DURING  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently  to 
attend  at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shadowy  aisles,  its 
moldering  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  panneling,  nil  reverend 
with  the  gloom  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  tit  it  for  the  haunt 


THE    WIDOW   AND    HER    SOX.  107 

of  solemn  meditation.  A  Sunday,  too,  in  the  country,  is  so  holy 
in  its  repose  ;  such  a  pensive  quiet  reigns  over  the  face  of  nature, 
that  every  restless  passion  is  charmed  down,  and  we  feel  all  the 
natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within  us. 

2.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  what  i3  called  a  devout  man,  but 
there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church,  amidst  tho 
beautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I  experience  nowhere  else ; 
and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a  better  man  on  Sun- 
day than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven.  But  in  this  church  I 
felt  myself  continually  thrown  back  upon  the  world  by  the  fri- 
gidity and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms  around  me. 

3.  The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble 
and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian,  was  a  poor  decrepit  old 
woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities.  She 
bore  the  traces  of  something  better  than  abject  poverty.  The 
lingerings  of  decent  pride  were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her 
dress,  though  humble  in  the  extreme,  was  scrupulously  clean. 
Some  trivial  respect,  too,  had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not 
take  her  seat  among  tho  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps 
of  the  altar. 

4.  She  seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all  friendshij->,  all. 
society,  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of  heaven. 
When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged  form  in 
prayer, — habitually  conning  her  prayer  book,  which  her  palsied 
hand  and  failing  eyes  could  not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which 
she  evidently  knew  by  heart, — I  felt  persuaded  that  the  falter- 
ing voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose  to  heaven  far  before  the  re- 
sponses of  the  clerk,  the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the  chanting  of 
the  choir. 

5.  I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches,  and  this 
was  so  delightfully  situated,  that  it  frequently  attracted  me.  It 
stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a  beautiful 
bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft 
meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded  by  yew-trees, 
which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall  Gothic  spire 
shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows  generally 
wheeling  about  it. 

G.  I  was  seated  there  ono  still  sunny  morning,  watching  two 
laborers  who  were  digging  a  grave.  They  had  chosen  one  of 
the  most  remote  and  neglected  corners  of  the  church-yard, 


108  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

where,  by  the  number  of  nameless  graves  around,  it  would  ap- 
pear that  the  indigent  and  friendless  were  hurried  into  the  earth. 
I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave  was  for  the  only  son  of  a 
poor  widow.  While  I  was  meditating  on  the  distinctions  of 
worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down  into  the  very  dust,  the 
toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach  of  the  funeraL 

7.  They  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty,  with  which  pride  had 
nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials,  without  pall 
or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  villagers.  The 
sexton  walked  before,  with  an  air  of  cold  indifference.  There 
were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected  woe,  but 
there  was  one  real  mourner,  who  feebly  tottered  after  the  corpse. 

8.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased — the  poor  old  woman 
whom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  was 
supported  by  a  humble  friend,  who  was  endeavoring  to  comfort 
her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring  poor  had  joined  the  train,  and 
some  children  of  the  village  were  running  hand  in  hand,  now 
shouting  with  unthinking  mirth,  and  sometimes  pausing  to  gazo 
with  childish  curiosity  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

9.  As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson 
issued  out  of  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with 
prayer  book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  service, 
however,  was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had  been 
destitute,  and  the  survivor  was  pennyless.  It  was  shuffled 
through,  therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The 
well-fed  priest,  scarcely  moved  ten  steps  from  the  church  door; 
his  voice  could  scarcely  be  heard  at  the  grave;  and  never  did  I 
hear  the  funeral  service,  that  sublime  and  touching  ceremony, 
turned  into  such  a  frigid  mummery  of  words 

10.  I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the  deceased 
— "  George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor  mother  had 
been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it.  Her  withered 
hands  were  clasped  as  if  in  prayer  ;  but  I  could  perceive,  by  a 
feeble  rocking  of  the  body  and  a  convulsive  motion  of  the  lips, 
that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of  her  son  with  tho 
yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

11.  Tho  service  being  ended,  preparations  were  made  to  de- 
posit the  coffin  in  the  earth.  There  was  that  bustling  stir  that 
breaks  so  harshly  on  the  feelings  of  grief  and  affection  >  dure- 


THE    WIDOW   AND    HER    SON.  109 

tions  given  in  the  cold  tones  of  business  ;  the  striking-  cf  spades 
into  sand  and  gravel,  which  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love  i3  of 
all  sounds  the  most  withering. 

12.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to  awaken  the  mother  from  a 
wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and  looked  about 
with  a  faint  wildness.  As  the  men  approached  with  cords  to 
lower  the  coffin  into  the  grave,  she  wrung  her  hands  and  broke 
into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor  woman  who  attended  her 
took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavored  to  raise  her  from  the  earth, 
and  to  whisper  something  like  consolation — "Nay,  now — nay, 
now — don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart."  She  could  only  shake 
her  head  and  wring  her  hands  as  one  not  to  be  comforted. 

13.  As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  of 
the  cords  seemed  to  agonize  her  ;  but  when,  on  some  accidental 
obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling  of  the  coffin,  all  the  tenderness 
of  the  mother  burst  forth  ;  as  if  any  harm  could  come  to  him 
who  was  far  beyond  the  reach  of  worldly  suffering.  I  could  see 
no  more — my  heart  swelled  into  my  throat — my  eyes  tilled  with 
tears — I  felt  as  if  I  wcro  acting  a  barbarous  part  in  standing  by 
and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of  maternal  anguish.  I  wandered 
to  another  part  of  the  church-yard,  where  I  remained  until  the 
funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

14.  When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the 
grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dear  to  her 
on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution,  my  heart 
ached  for  her.  "What,  thought  I,  arc  the  distresses  of  the  rich  ? 
They  have  friends  to  soothe — pleasures  to  beguile — a  world  to 
divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are  the  Borrows  of  the 
young  ?  Their  growing  minds  soon  close  above  the  wounds — 
their  elastic  spirits  soon  rise  beneath  the  pressure — their  green 
and  ductile  affections  soon  twine  around  new  objects. 

15.  But  the  sorrows  of  the  poor,  who  have  no  outward  ap- 
pliances to  soothe — the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom  life  at 
best  is  but  a  wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  after-growth 
of  joy — the  sorrows  of  a  widow,  aged,  solitary,  destitute,  mourn- 
ing over  an  only  son,  the  last  solace  of  her  years, — these  are  the 
sorrows  which  make  U3  feel  the  Im'potency  of  consolation. 


110  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

vn. 

14.     THE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON. 

PAET    SECOND. 

IT  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  church-yard.  On  my  way 
homeward,  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted  as  com- 
forter :  she  was  just  returning  from  accompanying  the  mother 
to  her  lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some  particulars 
connected  with  the  affecting  scene  I  had  witnessed. 

2.  The  parents  of  the  deceased  had  resided  in  the  village  from 
childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest  cottages,  and 
by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assistance  of  a  small  gar- 
den, had  supported  themselves  creditably  and  comfortably,  and 
led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one  son,  who  had 
grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of  their  age. 

3.  "  O,  Sir  I"  said  the  good  woman,  "  he  was  such  a  likely  lad, 
so  sweet-tempered,  so  kind  to  every  one  around  him,  so  dutiful 
to  his  parents !  It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday, 
dressed  out  in  his  best,  so  tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  supporting 
his  old  mother  to  church, — for  she  was  always  fonder  of  leaning 
on  George's  arm  than  on  her  good  man's  ;  and,  poor  soul,  she 
might  well  be  proud  of  him,  for  a  finer  lad  there  was  not  in  the 
country  round." 

4.  Unfortunately,  the  son  was  tempted,  during  a  year  of 
scarcity  and  agricultural  hardship,  to  enter  into  the  service  of 
one  of  the  small  craft  that  plied  on  a  neighboring  river.  He 
had  not  been  long  in  this  employ,  when  he  was  entrapped  by  a 
press-gang,  and  carried  off  to  sea.  His  parents  received  the 
tidings  of  his  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could  learn  nothing. 
It  was  the  loss  of  their  main  prop.  The  father,  who  was  already 
infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave. 

5.  The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could  no 
longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish.  Still  there 
was  a  kind  feeling  toward  her  throughout  the  village,  and  a  cer- 
tain respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants.  As  no  one 
applied  for  the  cottage  in  which  she  had  passed  so  many  happy 
days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in  it,  where  she  lived  solitary 
and  almost  helpless.  The  few  wants  of  nature  were  chiefly  sup- 
plied from  the  scanty  productions  of  her  little  garden,  which  the 
neighbors  would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her. 


TIIE    WIDOW    AND    HER    SON.  1H 

6.  It  was  but  a  few  days  before  the  time  at  which  these  cir- 
cumstances were  told  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some  vegeta- 
bles for  her  repast,  when  she  heard  the  cottage-door,  that  faced 
the  garden,  suddenly  opened.  A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed 
to  be  looking  eagerly  and  wildly  around.  Ho  was  dressed  in 
seaman's  clothes,  was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the 
air  of  one  broken  by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and 
hastened  toward  her  ;  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering:  he 
sank  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child. 

7.  The  poor  woman  gazed  upon  him  with  a  vacant  and  wan- 
dering eye — "  O  my  dear,  dear  mother !  don't  you  know  your 
son !  your  poor  boy  George !"  It  was,  indeed,  the  wreck  of  her 
once  noble  lad ;  who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness,  and 
foreign  imprisonment,  had,  at  length,  dragged  his  wasted  lirnbs 
homeward,  to  repose  among  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

8.  I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  ol  such  a  meet- 
ing, where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely  blended  ;  still  he 
was  alive ! — he  was  come  home  ! — he  might  yet  live  to  comfort 
and  cherish  her  old  age !  Nature,  however,  was  exhausted  in 
him  ;  and  if  any  thing  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work  of 
fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been  suf- 
ficient. He  stretched  himself  on  the  jDallet  where  his  widowed 
mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he  never  rose 
from  it  again. 

9.  The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers  had 
returned,  crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort  and  assist- 
ance that  their  humble  means  afforded.  He,  however,  was  too 
weak  to  talk — he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His  mother  was 
his  constant  attendant,  and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be  helped 
by  any  other  hand. 

10.  There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride 
of  manhood  ;  that  softens  the  heart,  and  brings  it  back  to  the 
feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  suffered,  even  in  advanced 
life,  in  sickness  and  despondency — who  that  has  pined  on  a 
weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land — but 
has  thought  on  the  mother  "  that  looked  on  his  childhood," 
that  smoothed  his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his  helplessness ! 

11.  Oh !  there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a 
mother  to  a  son,  that  transcends  all  other  affections  of  the 
heart.    It  is  neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor  daunted  by 


112  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

danger,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor  stifled  by  ingrati- 
tude. She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his  convenience  ;  she 
will  surrender  every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment ;  she  will  glory 
in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  prosperity  ;  and,  if  adversity  over- 
take him,  he  will  be  tho  dearer  to  her  by  misfortune  ;  and,  if 
disgrace  settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish 
him  ;  and,  if  all  the  world  besides  cast  him  off,  she  will  be  all 
the  world  to  him. 

12.  Poor  George  Somers  had  known  well  what  it  was  to  be 
in  sickness,  and  none  to  soothe — lonely  and  in  prison,  and  none 
to  visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from  his  sight ; 
if  she  moved  away,  his  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes  he 
would  start  from  a  feverish  dream,  look  anxiously  up  until  he 
saw  her  venerable  form  bending  over  him,  when  he  would  take 
her  hand,  lay  it  on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep  with  the  tranquil- 
lity of  a  child.     In  this  way  he  died. 

13.  My  first  impulse,  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  affliction, 
was  to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  administer  pecun- 
iary assistance,  and,  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found,  however,  on 
inqui'ry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers  had  prompted 
them  to  do  every  thing  that  the  case  admitted  ;  and  as  the  poor 
know  best  how  to  console  each  other's  sorrows,  I  did  not  ven- 
ture to  intrude. 

14.  The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church  ;  when,  to 
my  surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down  the  aisle 
to  her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar.  She  had  made 
an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourning  for  her  son  ;  and 
nothing  could  be  more  touching  than  this  struggle  between  pious 
affection  and  utter  poverty  :  a  black  ribbon  or  so — a  faded  black 
handkerchief — and  one  or  two  more  such  humble  attempts  to 
express  by  outward  signs  that  grief  which  passes  show. 

15.  When  I  looked  round  upon  the  storied  monuments,  the 
stately  hatchments,  the  cold  marble  pomp,  with  which  grandeur 
mourned  magnificently  over  departed  pride  ;  and  turned  to  this 
poor  widow,  bowed  down  by  age  and  sorrow  at  the  altar  of  her 
God,  and  offering  up  the  prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though 
a  broken  heart,  I  felt  that  this  living  monument  of  real  grief 
was  worth  them  all. 

16.  I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of 


BIOGRAPHY    OF    JACOB    HAYS.  113 

the  congregation,  and  they  were  moved  at  it.     They  exerted 

themselves  to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable,  and  to 

lighten  her  afflictions.     It  was,  however,  but  smoothing  a  few 

steps  to  the  grave.     In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after,  she 

was  missed  from  her  usual  seat  at  church,  and  before  I  left  the 

neighborhood,  I  heard,  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  she 

had  quietly  breathed  her  last,  and  gone  to  rejoin  those  she  loved, 

in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  never  known,  and  friends  are 

never  parted.  Irving. 

Washington  Irving,  who  has  delighted  the  readers  of  the  English  language 
for  more  than  half  a  century,  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  on  the  third  of 
April,  1783.  His  father,  a  respectable  merchant,  originally  from  Scotland,  died 
while  he  was  quite  young,  and  his  education  was  superintended  by  his  elder 
brothers,  some  of  whom  have  gained  considerable  reputation  for  acquirements 
and  literature.  His  first  essays  were  a  series  of  letters  under  the  signature  of 
Jonathan  Oldstyle,  Gent.,  published  in  the  .Morning  Chronicle,  of  which  one  of 
his  brothers  was  editor,  in  180:2.  In  1800,  after  his  return  from  a  European  tour, 
he  joined  Mr.  Paulding  in  writing  "Salmagundi,"  a  whimsical  miscellany, 
■which  captivated  the  town  and  decided  the  fortunes  of  its  authors.  Soon  after, 
he  produced  "The  History  of  New  York,  by  Diedrick  Knickerbocker,"  the  most 
original  and  humorous  work  of  the  age.  After  the  appearance  of  this  work,  he 
wrote  but  little  for  several  years,  having  engaged  with  his  brothers  in  foreign 
commerce;  but,  fortunately  for  American  literature,  while  in  England,  in  1815, 
a  reverse  of  fortune  changed  the  whole  tenor  of  his  life,  causing  him  to  resort  to 
literature,  which  had  hitherto  been  his  amusement,  for  solace  and  support.  The 
first  fruit  of  this  change  was  "The  Sketch  Book,"  which  was  published  in  New 
York  and  London  in  1819  and  1S20,  and  which  met  a  success  never  before  re- 
ceived by  a  book  of  unconnected  tales  and  essays.  Mr.  Irving  subsequently 
published  "Bracebridge  Hall,"  the  "History  of  the  Life  and  Voyages  of  Colum- 
bus," "The  Alhambra,"  &C,  <fcc.  He  received  one  of  the  gold  medals  of  fifty 
guineas  in  value,  provided  by  George  the  Fourth,  for  eminence  in  historical  com- 
position. In  1So2,  after  an  absence  of  seventeen  yean,  be  returned  to  the  United 
States.  His  admirable  "Life  of  Washington"  is  his  last  literary  production. 
He  died  Nov.  28, 1850.  His  style  has  the  ease  and  purity,  and  more  than  the  grace 
and  polish  of  Franklin.  His  carefully  selected  words,  his  variously  constructed 
periods,  his  remarkable  elegance,  sustained  sweetness,  and  distinct  and  delicate 
painting,  place  him  in  the  very  front  rank  of  the  masters  of  our  language. 


SECTION    IV. 
I. 

15.     BIOGRAPHY    OF    JACOB  HAYS. 

"TTTHERE  the  subject  of  the  present  memoir  (meniVar) 

VV      was  born,  can  be  but  of  little  consequence  ;  who  were 

his  father  and  mother,  of  still  less  ;  and  how  he  was  bred  and 


114  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READER. 

educated,  of  none  at  all.  I  shall  therefore '  pass  over  this  division 
of  his  existence  in  eloquent  silence,  and  come  at  once  to  the  period 
when  he  attained  the  ac'me2  of  constabulary3  power  and  dignity 
by  being  created  high  constable  of  this  city  and  its  suburbs  : 
and  it  may  be  remarked,  in  passing,  that  the  honorable  the  cor- 
poration, during  their  long  and  unsatisfactory  career,  never  made 
an  appointment  more  creditable  to  themselves,  more  beneficial 
to  the  city,  more  honorable  to  the  country  at  large,  more  impos- 
ing in  the  eye  of  foreign  nations,  more  disagreeable  to  all  rogues, 
nor  more  gratifying  to  honest  men,  than  that  of  the  gentleman 
whom  we  are  biographizing,  to  the  high  office  he  now  holds. 

2.  His  acuteness  and  vigilance  have  become  proverbial ;  and 
there  is  not  a  misdeed  committed  by  any  member  of  this  com- 
munity, but  he  is  speedily  admonished  that  he  will  "  have  old 
Hays  (as  he  is  affectionately  and  familiarly  termed)  after  him/' 
Indeed,  it  is  supposed  by  many  that  he  is  gifted  with  supernatu- 
ral attributes,  and  can  see  things  that  are  hid  from  mortal  ken  ; 
or  how,  it  is  contended,  is  it  possible  that  he  should,  as  he  does, 
"  bring  forth  the  secret'st  man  of  blood  ?"  That  he  can  discover 
"  undivulged  crime" — that  when  a  store  has  been  robbed,  he, 
without  hesitation,  can  march  directly  to  the  house  where  the 
goods  are  concealed,  and  say,  "  These  are  they" — or,  when  a  gen- 
tleman's pocket  has  been  picked,  that,  from  a  crowd  of  unsavory 
miscreants  he  can,  with  unerring  judgment,  lay  his  hand  upon 
one  and  exclaim,  "You're  wanted!" — or,  how  is  it  that  he  is 
gifted  with  that  strange  principle  of  ubiquity  *  that  makes  him 
"here  and  there,  and  everywhere"  at  the  same  moment?  No 
matter  how,  so  long  as  the  public  reap  the  benefit ;  and  well  may 
that  public  apostrophize  him  in  the  words  of  the  poet — 

Long  may  he  live  !  our  city's  pride! 

Where  lives  the  rogue,  but  flies  before  him  ! 
With  trusty  crabstick  by  his  side, 

And  staff  of  office  waving  O'er  him. 

3.  But  it  is  principally  as  a  literary  man  that  we  would  speak 
of  Mr.  Hays.  True,  his  poetry  is  "unwritten,"  as  is  also  his 
prose  ;  and  he  has  invariably  expressed  a  decided  contempt  for 

1  Therefore,  (fh6r'f6r.)  a  constable,  or  to  o  police-officer. 

2  Ac'  me,  the  summit;  the  top  or  *  Ubiquity,  (xv  blk'  \\i  tf).  exist- 
highest  point.  ence  in  all  places,  or  every  where,  at 

*  Con  stab"  u  la  ry,  pertaining  to     the  same  time. 


BIOGRAPHY    OF    JACOB    HAYS.  115 

philosophy,  music,  rhetoric,  the  belles-lettres,1  the  fine  arts,  and 
in  fact  all  species  of  composition  excepting  bailiffs'  warrants  and 
biils  of  indictment :  but  what  of  that  ?  The  constitution  of  his 
mind  is,  even  unknown  to  himself,  decidedly  poetical.  And  here 
I  may  be  allowed  to  avail  myself  of  another  peculiarity  of  modern 
biog'raphy,  namely,  that  of  describing  a  man  by  what  he  is  not. 

4.  Mr.  Hays  has  not  the  graphic 3  power  or  antiquarian 3  lore 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott — nor  the  glittering  imagery  or  voluptuous 
tenderness  of  Moore — nor  the  delicacy  and  polish  of  Rogers — 
nor  the  spirit  of  Campbell — nor  the  scntimcntalism  of  Miss  Lan- 
don — nor  the  der)th  and  purity  of  thought  and  intimate  acquaint- 
ance wTith  nature  of  Bryant — nor  the  brilliant  style  and  playful 
humor  of  Halleck  :  no,  he  is  more  in  the  petit  larceny4  manner 
of  Crabbe,  with  a  slight  touch  of  Byronic  power  and  gloom. 
He  is  familiarly  acquainted  with  all  those  interesting  scenes  of 
vice  and  poverty  so  fondly  dwelt  upon  by  that  reverend  chron- 
icler of  little  villainy,  and  if  ever  he  can  be  prevailed  upon  to 
publish,  there  will  doubtless  be  found  a  remarkable  similarity  in 
their  works. 

5.  His  height  is  about  five  feet  seven  inches,  but  who  makes 
his  clothes  we  have  as  yet  been  unable  to  ascertain.  His  coun- 
tenance is  strongly  marked,  and  forcibly  brings  to  mind  the  lines 
of  Byron  when  describing  his  Corsair — 

There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer 
That  raised  emotions  both  of  hate  and  fear ; 
And  where  his  glance  of  "  apprehension  ,?  fell, 
Hope  withering  fled,  ami  mercy  sighed,  farewell  ! 

6.  Yet  with  all  his  great  qualities,  it  is  to  be  doubted  whether 
he  is  much  to  be  envied.  His  situation  certainly  has  its  disad- 
vantages. Pure  and  blameless  as  his  life  is,  his  society  is  not 
courted — no  man  boasts  of  his  friendship,  and  few  indeed  like 
even  to  own  him  for  an  intimate  acquaintance.  Wherever  ho 
goes  his  slightest  action  is  watched  and  criticised  ;  and  if  ho 
happen  carelessly  to  lay  his  hand  upon  a  gentleman's  shoulder 
and  whisper  something  in  his  car,  even  that  man,  as  if  there 

1  Belles-lettres,  (bel-lfttf  ter),  polite         «  Petit  larceny,  (pit'  it  lar'  ce  nil, 

or  elegant  literature.  small  thefts.     In  England,  the  steal- 

5  Graph' ic,  written ;  clearly  and  ing  of  any  thing  of  the  value  of  twelve- 

vividly  described.  pence,  or  under  that  amount ;  and 

3  Anv  ti  qua'  ri  an,  pertaining  to  in   the   State  of  New  York,   under 

antiquity,  or  former  ages.  twenty-five  dollars. 


HG  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

were  contamination  in  his  touch,  is  seldom  or  never  seen  after- 
ward in  decent  society.  Such  things  can  not  fail  to  prey  upon 
his  feelings.  But  when  did  ever  greatness  exist  without  some 
penalty  attached  to  it  ? 

7.  The  first  time  that  ever  Hays  was  pointed  out  to  me,  was 
one  summer  afternoon,  when  acting  in  his  official  capacity  in  the 
City  Hall.  The  room  was  crowded  in  every  part,  and  as  he  en- 
tered with  a  luckless  wretch  in  his  gripe,  a  low  suppressed  mur- 
mur ran  through  the  hall,  as  if  some  superior  being  had  alighted 
in  the  midst  of  them.  He  placed  the  prisoner  at  the  bar — a 
poor  coatless  individual,  with  scarcely  any  edging  end  no  roof 
to  his  hat — to  stand  his  trial  for  bigamy,1  and  then,  in  a  loud, 
authoritative  tone,  called  out  for  "silence,"  and  there  was  silence. 
Again  he  spoke — "  Hats  off  there  !"  and  the  multitude  became 
uncovered  ;  after  which  he  took  his  handkerchief  out  of  his 
left-hand  coat-pocket,  wiped  his  face,  put  it  back  again,  looked 
sternly  around,  and  then  sat  down. 

8.  The  scene  was  awful  and  impressive  ;  but  the  odor  was 
disagreeable  in  consequence  of  the  heat,  acting  upon  a  ]arge 
quantity  of  animal  matter  congregated  together.  My  olfactory 2 
organs  were  always  lam'entably  acute  :  I  was  obliged  to  retire, 
and  from  that  time  to  this,  I  have  seen  nothing,  though  I  have 
heard  much  of  the  subject  of  this  brief  and  imperfect,  but,  I  trust, 
honest  and  impartial  memoir. 

9.  Health  and  happiness  be  wiih  thee,  thou  prince  of  consta- 
bles— thou  guardian  of  innocence — thou  terror  of  evil-doers  and 
little  boys !  May  thy  years  be  many  and  thy  sorrows  few — may 
thy  life  be  like  a  long  and  cloudless  summer's  day,  and  may  thy 
salary  be  increased !  And  when  at  last  the  summons  comes 
from  which  there  is  no  escaping — when  the  warrant  arrives 
upon  which  no  bail  can  be  put  in — when  thou  thyself,  that  hast 
"wanted"  so  many,  art  in  turn  "wanted,  and  must  go," 

Mayest  thou  fall 
Into  the  grave  as  softly  as  the  leaves 
Of  the  sweet  roses  on  an  autumn  eve, 
Beneath3  the  small  sighs  of  the  western  wind, 
Drop  to  the  earth  !  William  Cox. 

William  Cox,  author  of  two  volumes,  entitled  "Crayon  Sketches,"  published 

1  Big'  a  my,  the  crime  of  having        2  Ol  fuc'  to  ry,     pertaining      to 
two  wives  or  two  husbands  at  the     smelling, 
fame  lime.  8  Be  nealk'. 


PETER    POUNCE    AND    PARSON   ADAMS.  H7 

at  New  York,  in  1830,  an  Englishman  by  birth,  came  to  America  at  an  early  n~e 
to  practice  his  calling  of  a  printer.     He  was  employed  on  the  "  Mirror,"  con- 
ducted by  General  M0RBI8,  and  gained  a  literary  reputation  by  contributing  a 
series  of  essays  to  its  columns.    These,  in  a  happy  vein  of  humor  and  critic'. 
satirizing  the  literary  infirmities  of  the  times,  pleased  men  oftaste  and  good  si 
The  above  sketch,  "  written  during  an  awful  prevalence  of  biographies," gained 
great  celebrity  at  the  time.    His  "  Crayon  Sketches  "  are  full  of  originality,  pli 
antry,  and  wit,  alternately  reminding  the  reader  of  the  poetical  eloquence  of  Haz- 
htt,  and  the  quaint  humor  and  eccentric  tastes  of  Charles  Lamb.    After  writing  a 
number  of  years  for  the  Mirror,  he  returned  to  England,  where  he  died  in  1851. 

n. 

1G.     PETER    POUNCE    AND    PARSON    ADAMS.1 

PETER  POUNCE,  being  desirous  of  having  some  one  to 
whom  he  might  communicate  his  grandeur,  told  the  parson 
he  would  convey  him  home  in  his  chariot.  This  favor  was,  by 
Adams,  with  many  bows  and  acknowledgments,  accepted,  though 
he  afterward  said  he  ascended  the  chariot  rather  that  he  might 
not  offend,  than  from  any  desire  of  riding  in  it,  for  that  in  his 
heart  he  preferred  the  pedestrian  even  to  the  vehicular  expedi- 
tion. The  chariot  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  Mr.  Adams 
observed  it  was  a  very  fine  day.  "  Ay,2  and  a  very  fine  country, 
too,"  answered  Pounce. 

2.  "I  should  think  so  more,"  returned  Adams,  "if  I  had  not 
lately  traveled  over  the  Downs,  which  I  take  to  exceed  this,  and 
all  other  prospects  in  the  universe."  "A  fig  for  prospects," 
answered  Pounce  ;  "  one  acre  here  is  worth  ten  there  :  for  my 
part,  I  have  no  delight  in  the  prospect  of  any  land  but  my  own." 

3.  "  Sir,"  said  Adams,"  "  you  can  indulge  yourself  in  many  fino 
prospects  of  that  kind."  '  I  thank  God  I  have  a  little,"  replied 
the  other,  "  with  which  1  am  content,  and  envy  no  man.  I  havo 
a  little,  Mr.  Adams,  with  which  I  do  as  much  good  as  I  can." 

4.  Adams  answered,  "that  riches,  without  charity,  were 
nothing  worth  ;  for  that  thev  wore  a  blessing  onlv  to  him  who 
made  them  a  blessing  to  others."     "  You  and  I,"  said  Peter, 

1  In   the    following    conversation,  virtuous  and  manly  parson,  on  the 

which  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  in  other  hand,  rising  and  becoming  glo- 

all  novel-writing,  the  reader  experi-  rious  out  of  the  depths  of  his  hum 

ences  a  delightful  triumph  in  seeing  ble  honesty.    This  and  the  following 

how  a  vulgar  upstart  is  led  to  betray  two  lessons  aro  admirable  exercises 

his  baseness  while  he  thinks  he  is  in  Personation — see  p.  G9. 

most  exalting  himself;  the  poor,  but  ■  Ay.  (d!\  yea  :  yes. 


118  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

"have  different  notions  of  charity.  I  own,  as  it  is  generally 
used,  I  do  not  like  the  word,  nor  do  I  think  it  becomes  one  of 
us  gentlemen ;  it  is  a  mean,  parson-like  quality  ;  though  I  would 
not  infer  that  many  parsons  have  it  neither." 

5.  "  Sir,"  said  Adams,  "my  definition  of  charity  is,  a  gener- 
ous disposition  to  relieve  the  distressed."  "  There  is  something 
in  that  definition,"  answered  Peter,  "which  I  like  well  enough; 
it  is,  as  you  say,  a  disposition — and  does  not  so  much  consist  in 
the  act  as  in  the  disposition  to  do  it :  but,  alas !  Mr.  Adams, 
who  are  meant  by  the  distressed  ?  believe  me,  the  distresses  of 
mankind  are  mostly  imaginary,  and  it  would  be  rather  folly 
than  goodness  to  relieve  them." 

6.  "Sure,1  sir,"  replied  Adams,  "hunger  and  thirst,  cold  and 
nakedness,  and  other  distresses  which  attend  the  poor,  can  never 
be  said  to  be  imaginary  evils."  "  How  can  any  man  complain 
of  hunger,"  said  Pounce,  "in  a  country  where  such  excellent 
salads  are  to  be  gathered  in  almost  every  field  ? — or  of  thirst, 
where  every  stream  and  river  produce  such  delicious  potations  ? 
— and  as  for  cold  and  nakedness,  they  are  evils  introduced  by 
luxury  and  custom.  A  man  naturally  wants  clothes  no  more 
than  a  horse  or  any  other  animal ;  and  there  are  whole  nations 
who  go  without  them.  But  these  are  things,  perhaps,  which 
you,  who  do  not  know  the  world — " 

7.  "  You  will  pardon  me,  sir,"  returned  Adams  ;  "  I  have  read 
of  the  Gymnos'ophists."*  "A  plague  of  your  Jehosaphats," 
cried  Peter  ;  "  the  greatest  fault  in  our  constitution  is  the  pro- 
vision made  for  the  poor,  except  that  perhaps  made  for  some 
others.  Sir,  I  have  not  an  estate  which  doth  not  contribute 
almost  as  much  again  to  the  poor  as  to  ihc  land-tax  ;  and  I  do 
assure  you  I  expect  myself  to  come  to  the  parish  in  the  end." 

8.  To  which  Adams  giving  a  dissenting  smile,  Peter  thus  pro- 
ceeded : — "  I  fancy,  Mr.  Adams,  you  arc  one  of  those  who  im- 
agine I  am  a  lump  of  money  ;  for  there  are  many  who  I  fancy 
believe  that  not  only  my  pockets,  but  my  whole  clothes  are  lined 
with  bank  bills  ;  but,  I  assure  you,  you  are  all  mistaken  :  I  am 

1  Sure,  (shor),  see  Rule  4,  p.  32.  Some  of  them  practiced  medicine. 

2  Gym  nos'  o  phists,  philosophers  They  believed  in  flic  transmigration 
of  India,  so  called  because  they  went  of  souls,  and  placed  the  chief  hap]  i- 
with  bare  feet  and  little  clothing,  ncss  of  man  in  the  contempt  of  pleas- 
They  never  drank  wine,  nor  married,  ures  of  sense  and  goods  of  fortune. 


PETEll    POUNCE    AND    PARSON   ADAMS.  H<j 

not  the  man  the  world  esteems  me.  If  I  can  hold  my  Lead 
above  water,  it  is  all  I  can.  I  have  injured  myself  by  purchas- 
ing ;  I  have  been  too  liberal  of  my  money.  Indeed  I  fear  my 
heir  will  find  my  affairs  in  a  worse  situation  than  they  arc  re- 
puted to  be.  Ah !  he  will  have  reason  to  wish  I  had  loved 
money  more  and  land  less.  Pray,  my  good  neighbor,  where 
should  I  have  that  quantity  of  money  the  world  is  so  liberal  to 
bestow  on  me  ?  Where  could  I  possibly,  without  I  had  stole  it, 
acquire  such  a  treasure  ?" 

9.  "  AVhy  truly,"  said  Adams,  "  I  have  been  always  of  your 
opinion  ;  I  have  wondered,  as  well  as  yourself,  with  what  confi- 
dence they  could  report  such  things  of  you,  which  have  to  me 
appeared  as  mere  impossibilities  ;  for  you  know,  sir,  and  I  have 
often  heard  you  say  it,  that  your  wealth  is  of  your  own  acquisi- 
tion ;  and  can  it  be  credible  that  in  your  short  time  you  should 
have  amassed  such  a  heap  of  treasure  as  these  people  will  have 
you  are  worth  ?  Indeed,  had  you  inherited  an  estate  like  Sir 
Thomas  Booby,  which  had  descended  in  your  family  through 
many  generations,  they  might  have  had  a  color  for  their  asser- 
tions." "  Why,  what  do  they  say  I  am  worth  ?"  cries  Peter,  with 
a  malicious  sneer.  • 

10.  "  Sir,"  answered  Adams,  "  I  have  heard  some  aver  you  are 
not  worth  less  than  twenty  thousand  pounds."  At  which  Peter 
frowned.  "  Nay,  sir,"  said  Adams,  "  you  ask  me  only  the  opin- 
ion of  others  ;  for  my  own  part,  I  have  always  denied  it,  nor 
did  I  ever  believe  you  could  possibly  be  worth  half  that  sum." 

11.  "  However,  Mr.  Adams,"  said  he,  squeezing  him  by  the 
hand,  "  I  would  not  sell  them  all  I  am  worth  for  double  that 
sum  ;  and  as  to  what  you  believe,  or  they  believe,  I  care  not  a 
fig.  I  am  not  poor,  because  you  think  me  so,  nor  because  you 
attempt  to  undervalue  me  in  the  country.  I  know  the  envy  of 
mankind  very  well ;  but  I  thank  heaven  I  am  above  them.  It 
is  time,  my  wealth  is  of  my  own  acquisition.  I  have  not  an  es- 
tate like  Sir  Thomas  Booby,  that  hath  descended  in  my  family 
through  many  generations  ;  but  I  know  heirs  of  such  estates, 
who  are  forced  to  travel  about  the  country,  like  some  people  in 
torn  cassocks,1  and  might  be  glad  to  accept  of  a  pitiful  curacy,2 

1  Cas'  sock,  a  kind  of  long  frock-  •  Cu'  ra  cy,  the  office  of  a  curate, 
coat  worn  by  a  priest ;  close  garment  who  performs  the  duties  in  the  place 
or  gown.  of  the  vicar,  parson,  cr  incumbent. 


120  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

for  what  I  know  ;  yes,  sir,  as  shabby  fellows  as  yourself,  whom 
no  man  of  my  figure,  without  that  vice  of  good-nature  about 
him,  would  suffer  to  ride  in  a  chariot  with  him." 

12.  "  Sir,"  said  Adams,  "I  value  not  your  chariot  of  a  rush  ; 
and  if  I  had  known  you  had  intended  to  affront  me,  I  would 
have  walked  to  the  world's  end  on  foot,  ere  I  would  have  ac- 
cepted a  place  in  it.  However,  sir,  I  will  soon  rid  you  of  that 
inconvenience !"  And  so  saying,  he  opened  the  chariot  door, 
without  calling  to  the  coachman,  and  leaped  out  into  the  high- 
way, forgetting  to  take  his  hat  along  with  him  ;  which,  however, 
Mr.  Pounce  threw  after  him  with  great  violence. 

Henry  Fielding. 

Henry  Fielding  was  born  at  Sharpham,  Somersetshire,  England,  April  22, 
1707.  He  was  educated  at  Eton,  and  afterward  studied  law  at  Leyden.  He 
was  the  author  of  "Joseph  Andrews,"  "A  Journey  from  this  World  to  the 
Next,"  "  Jonathan  Wild,"  "  Tom  Jones,"  and  "Amelia,"  He  received  £600  for 
the  copyright  of  "Tom  Jones,"  and  such  was  its  success,  that  Millei,  the  pub- 
lisher, presented  £100  more  to  the  author.  For  "Amelia."  he  received  £1000. 
In  1749  Fielding  was  appointed  one  of  the  justices  of  Westminster  and  Middle- 
sex, and  was  a  zealous  and  active  magistrate.  He  was  a  kind-hearted  man;  but 
improvident,  and  in  early  life  dissipated.  He  ranks  as  one  of  the  first  among 
English  novelists.  His  style  is  marked  for  light  humor,  lively  description,  and 
keen,  yet  sportive  satire.  Endowed  with  little  of  the  poetical  or  imaginative 
faculty,  his  study  lay  in  real*life  and  every-day  scenes,  which  he  depicted  with 
a  truth  and  freshness,  a  buoyancy  and  vigor,  and  such  an  exuberance  of  prac- 
tical knowledge,  easy  raillery,  and  lively  fancy,  that  in  his  own  department  he 
stands  unrivaled.    He  died  at  Lisbon,  on  the  8th  of  October,  1754. 

m. 

17.     CONVERSATIONS  AFTER  MARRIAGE.1 

PART   FIRST. 

Enter  Lady  Teazle  and  Sir  Peter. 

IR  PETER.  Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I'll  not  bear  it  I 
Lady  Teazle.  [Rigid.]  Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you  may  bear  it 
or  not,  as  you  please  ;  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own  way  in  every 
thing  ;  and  what's  more,  I  will  too.  What !  though  I  was  edu- 
cated in  the  country,  I  know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in 
London  are  accountable  to  nobody  after  they  arc  married. 

Sir  P.  [Left.']  Very  well,  ma'am,  very  well — so  a  husband  is 
to  have  no  influence,  no  authority? 

Lady  T.  Authority!  No,  to  be  sure  : — if  you  wanted  authority 

1  From  "  The  School  for  Scandal." 


s 


CONVERSATIONS    AFTER    MARRIAGE.  121 

over  me,  you  should  have  adopted  me,  and  not  married  me  ;  I 
am  sure  you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  P.  Old  enough ! — ay — there  it  is.  "Well,  well,  Lady 
Teazle,  though  my  life  may  be  made  unhappy  by  ydkir  temper, 
I'll  not  be  ruined  by  your  extravagance. 

Lady  T.  My  extravaganco !  I'm  sure  I'm  not  more  extrava- 
gant than  a  woman  ought  to  be. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall  throw  away  no  more  sums 
on  such  unmeaning  luxury.  'Slifel  to  spend  as  much  to  furnish 
your  dressing-room  with  flowers  in  winter  as  would  suffice  to 
turn  the  Pantheon '  into  a  green-house. 

Lady  T.  Lord,  Sir  Peter,  am  I  to  blame,  because  flowers  are 
dear  in  cold  weather?  You  should  find  fault  with  the  climate, 
and  not  with  me.  For  my  part,  I'm  sure,  I  wish  it  was  spring 
all  the  year  round,  and  that  roses  grew  under  our  feet ! 

Sir  P.  Zounds '  madam — if  you  had  been  born  to  this,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  at  your  talking  thus  ;  but  you  forget  what 
your  situation  was  when  I  married  you. 

Lady  T.  No,  no,  I  don't ;  'twas  a  very  disagreeable  one,  or  I 
should  never  have  married  you. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  you  were  then  in  somewhat  a  hum- 
bler style, — the  daughter  of  a  plain  country  squire.  Recollect, 
Lady  Teazle,  .when  I  saw  you  first  sitting  at  your  tambor,  in  a 
pretty  figured  linen  gown,  with  a  bunch  of  keys  at  your  sido  ; 
your  hair  combed  smooth  over  a  roll,  and  your  apartment  hung 
round  with  fruits  in  worsted  of  your  own  working. 

Lady  T.  Oh  yes  !  I  remember  it  very  well,  and  a  curious  life 
I  led, — my  daily  occupation  to  inspect  the  dairy,  superintend  the 
poultry,  make  extracts  from  the  family  reccipt-bcok,  and  comb 
my  aunt  Deborah's  lap  dog. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  yes,  ma'am,  'twas  so  indeed. 

Lady  T.  And  then,  you  know,  my  evening  amusements  ; — to 
draw  patterns  for  ruffles,  which  I  had  not  materials  to  mako  up  ; 
to  play  Pope  Joan '  with  the  curate ;  to  read  a  novel  to  my  aunt ; 
or  to  be  stuck  down  to  an  old  spinet  to  strum  my  father  to  sleep 
after  a  fox-chase.  [C)*osses,  L. 

1  Pan  the'  on,  a  magnificent  tern-     pa,  is  of  a  round  or  cylindrical  form, 

pie  at  Rome,  dedicated  to  all  the  gods,     with  a  spherical  dome,  and  one  Iran- 

lt  is  now  converted  into  a  church,     drcd  and  forty-four  feet  in  diameter. 

It  was  built  or  embellished  by  Agrip-         -  Pope  Jean,  a  gamo  nt  cards, 

G 


122  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Sir  P.  [B-]  I  am  glad  you  have  so  good  a  memory.  Yes, 
madam,  these  were  the  recreations  I  took  you  from  ;  but  now 
you  must  have  your  coach — vis-a-vis  ' — and  three  powdered 
footmen  before  your  chair  ;  and,  in  the  summer,  a  pair  of  white 
cats  to  draw  you  to  Kensington  Gardens.  No  recollection,  I 
suppose,  when  you  were  content  to  ride  double,  behind  the  but- 
ler, on  a  docked  coach-horse. 

Lady  T.  [LJ]  No — I  never  did  that :  I  deny  the  butler  and 
the  coach-horse. 

Sir  P.  This,  madam,  was  your  situation  ;  and  what  have  I 
done  for  you  ?  I  have  made  you  a  woman  of  fashion,  of  fortune, 
of  rank  ;  in  short,  I  have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  T.  Well,  then  ;  and  there  is  but  one  thing  more  you 
can  make  me  add  to  the  obligation,  and  that  is — 
Sir  P.  My  widow,  I  suppose  ? 
Lady  T.  Hem !  hem ! 

Sir  P.  I  thank  you,  madam  ;  but  don't  natter  yourself ;  for 
though  your  ill  conduct  may  disturb  my  peace  of  mind,  it  shall 
never  break  my  heart,  I  promise  you  :  however,  I  am  equally 
obliged  to  you  for  the  hint.  [  Crosses,  L. 

Lady  T.  Then  why  will  you  endeavor  to  make  yourself  so 
disagreeable  to  me,  and  thwart  me  in  every  little  elegant  expense  ? 
Sir  P.   [LJ]  'Slife,  madam,  I  say,  had  you  any  of  these  little 
elegant  expenses  when  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  T.  Lud,  Sir  Peter !  would  you  have  me  be  out  of  the 
fashion  ? 

Sir  P.  The  fashion,  indeed !  What  had  you  to  do  with  the 
fashion  before  you  married  me  ? 

Lady  T.  For  my  part,  I  should  think  you  would  like  to  have 
your  wife  thought  a  woman  of  taste. 

Sir  P.  Ay ;  there  again — taste.  Zounds  !  madam,  you  had 
no  taste  when  you  married  me  ! 

Lady  T.  That's  very  true  indeed,  Sir  Peter  ;  and  after  having 
married  you,  I  should  never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I  allow. 
But  now,  Sir  Peter,  since  we  have  finished  our  daily  jangle,  I 
presume  I  may  go  to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sneerwell's. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  there's  another  precious  circumstance — a  charm- 
ing set  of  acquaintance  you  have  made  there. 


Vis-a-vis,  (zlv^  a  ve'),  a  carriage  in  which  two  persons  Pit  face  to  face. 


•  CONVERSATIONS    AFTER    MARRIAGE.  123 

Lady  T.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  arc  all  people  of  rank  and  for- 
tune, and  remarkably  tenacious  of  reputation. 

Sir  P.  Yes,  egad,  they  arc  tenacious  of  reputation  with  a 
vengeance  ;  for  they  don't  choose  anybody  shoukMiave  a  char- 
acter but  themselves ! — Such  a  crew !  Ah  !  many  a  wretch  has 
rid  on  a  hurdle '  who  has  done  less  mischief  than  these  utterers 
of  forged  tales,  coiners  of  scandal,  and  clippers  of  reputation. 

Lady  T.  What !  would  you  restrain  the  freedom  of  speech  ? 

Sir  P.  Ah !  they  have  made  you  just  as  bad  as  any  one  of 
the  society. 

Lady  T.  Why,  I  believe  I  do  bear  a  part  with  a  tolerable  grace. 

Sir  P.  Grace,  indeed ! 

Lady  P.  But  I  vow  I  bear  no  malice  against  the  people  I 
abuse.  When  I  say  an  ill-natured  thing,  'tis  out  of  pure  good- 
humor  ;  and  I  take  it  for  granted,  they  deal  exactly  in  the  same 
manner  with  me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  you  promised  to 
come  to  Lady  Sncerwell's  too. 

Sir.  P.  Well,  well,  I'll  call  in  just  to  look  after  my  own  char- 
acter. 

Lady  T.  Then  indeed  you  must  make  haste  after  me,  or 
you'll  be  too  late.     So,  good-by  to  you.  [Exit  Lady  Teazle. 

Sir  P.  So — I  have  gained  much  by  my  intended  expostula- 
tion :  yet,  with  what  a  charming  air  she  contradicts  every  thing 
I  say,  and  how  pleasingly  she  shows  her  contempt  for  my  au- 
thority !  Well,  though  I  can't  make  her  love  me,  there  is  great 
satisfaction  in  quarreling  with  her  ;  and  I  think  she  never  ap- 
pears to  such  advantage,  as  when  she  is  doing  everything  in  her 
power  to  plague  me.  [Exit. 

IV. 

18.     CONVERSATIONS    AFTER    MARRIAGE. 

PART    SECOND. 

Lady  Teazle.  Lud !  Sir  Peter.  I  hope  you  haven't  been  quar- 
reling with  Maria  ?  It  is  not  using  me  well  to  be  ill-humored 
when  I  am  not  by. 

Sir  Peter.  [Left.]  Ah!  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have  the 
power  to  make  me  good-humored  at  all  times. 

1  Hurdle,  (h£r  dl),  a  sort  of  sledge  used  to  draw  traitors  to  execution. 


124  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

Lady  T.  [Right]  I  am  sure  I  wish  I  had  ;  for  I  want  you  to 
be  in  a  charming  sweet  temper  at  this  moment.  Do  be  good- 
humored  now,  and  let  me  have  two  hundred  pounds,  will  you  ? 

Sir  P.  Two  hundred  pounds !  What,  ain't  I  to  be  in  a  good 
humor  without  paying  for  it  ?  But  speak  to  me  thus,  and  i'  faith 
there's  nothing  I  could  refuse  you.  You  shall  have  it  [gives  her 
notes']  ;  but  seal  me  a  bond  of  repayment. 

Lady  T.  Oh  no  ;  there — my  note  of  h^nd  will  do  as  well. 

[Offering  her  hand. 

Sir  P.  And  you  shall  no  longer  reproach  me  with  not  giving 
you  an  independent  settlement.  I  mean  shortly  to  surprise  you  : 
■ — but  shall  we  always  live  thus,  hey  ? 

Lady  T.  If  you  please.  I'm  sure  I  don't  care  how  soon  we 
leave  off  quarreling,  provided  you'll  own  you  were  tired  first. 

Sir  P.  Well  ;  then  let  our  future  contest  be,  who  shall  be 
most  obliging. 

Lady  T.  I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,  good-nature  becomes  you  : 
you  look  now  as  you  did  before  we  were  married,  when  you  used 
to  walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell  me  stories  of  what  a 
gallant'  you  were  in  your  youth,  and  chuck  me  under  the  chin, 
you  would  ;  and  ask  me  if  I  thought  I  could  love  an  old  fellow, 
who  would  deny  me  nothing — didn't  you  ? 

Sir  P.  Yes,  yes,  and  you  were  kind  and  attentive — 

Lady  T.  Ay,  so  I  was,  and  would  always  take  your  part  when 
my  acquaintance  used  to  abuse  you,  and  turn  you  into  ridicule. 

Sir  P.  Indeed! 

Lady  T.  Ay  ;  and  when  my  cousin  Sophy  has  called  you  a 
stiff,  peevish  old  bachelor,  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of 
marrying  one  who  might  be  my  father,  I  have  always  defended 
you,  and  said,  I  didn't  think  you  so  ugly  by  any  means. 

Sir  P.  Thank  you. 

Lady  T.  And  I  dared  say  you'd  make  a  very  good  sort  of  a 
husband. 

Sir  P.  And  you  prophesied  right  :  and  we  shall  now  be  the 
happiest  couple — 

Lady  T.  And  never  differ  again  ? 

Sir  P.  No,  never  ! — though  at  the  same  time,  indeed,  my  dear 
Lady  Teazle,  you  must  watch  your  temper  very  seriously  ;  for 
in  all  our  little  quarrels,  my  dear,  if  you  recollect,  my  love,  you 
always  begin  first. 


CONVERSATIONS    AFTER    MARRIAGE,  125 

Lady  T.  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Sir  Peter  ;  indeed,  you 
always  gave  the  provocation. 

Sir  P.  Now  see,  my  angel !  take  care — contradicting  isn't  tho 
way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  T.  Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my  love. 

Sir  P.  There,  now !  you — you  are  going  on.  You  don't  per- 
ceive, my  life,  that  you  are  just  doing  the  very  thing  which  you 
know  always  makes  me  angry. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  you  know  if  you  will  be  angry  without  any 
reason,  my  dear — 

Sir  P.  There !  now  you  want  to  quarrel  again. 

Lady  T.  No,  I  am  sure  I  don't ;  but  if  you  will  be  so  peevish — 

Sir  P.  There  now !  who  begins  first  ? 

Lady  T.  Why  you,  to  be  sure.  I  said  nothing — but  there's 
no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam  ;  the  fault's  in  your  own  temper. 

Lady  T.  Ay,  you  arc  just  what  my  cousin  Sophy* said  you 
would  be. 

Sir  P.  Your  cousin  Sophy  is  a  forward,  impertinent  gipsy. 

Lady  T.  You  are  a  great  bear,  I'm  sure,  to  abuse  my  relations. 

Sir  P.  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  marriage  be  doubled  on 
me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be  friends  with  you  any  more. 

Lady  T.  So  much  the  better. 

Sir  P.  No,  no,  madam  :  'tis  evident  you  never  cared  a  pin  for 
me,  and  I  was  a  madman  to  marry  you — a  pert,  rural  coquette' 
that  had  refused  half  tho  honest  squires  in  the  neighborhood. 

Lady  T.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool  to  marry  yon — an  old 
dangling  bachelor,  who  was  single  at  fifty,  only  because  he  never 
could  meet  with  any  one  who  would  have  him.  [Crosses  L. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  ay,  madam  ;  but  you  were  pleased  enough  to  listen 
to  me  :  3-011  never  had  such  an  offer  before. 

Lady  T.  No !  didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Tivy  Terrier,  who  every- 
body said  would  have  been  a  better  match  ?  for  his  estate  is 
just  as  good  as  yours,  and  he  has  broke  his  neck  since  we  have 
been  married.  [Crosses  R. 

Sir  P.  [L.~]  I  have  done  with  you,  madam  !  You  are  an  un- 
feeling, ungrateful — but  there's  an  end  of  every  thing.  I  believe 
you  capable  of  every  thing  that  is  bad.  Yes,  madam,  I  now 
believe  the  reports  relative  to  you  and  Charles,  madam.  Yes, 
madam,  you  and  Charles  are — not  without  grounds. 


126  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Lady  T.  [P.]  Take  care,  Sir  Peter!  you  had  better  not  in- 
sinuate any  such  thing !  I'll  not  be  suspected  without  cause,  I 
promise  you. 

Sir  P.  Very  well,  madam !  very  well !  A  separate  main'ten- 
ance  as  soon  as  you  please  !  Yes,  madam,  or  a  divorco ! — 1'il 
make  an  example  of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bachelors. 

Lady  T.  Agreed !  agreed !  And  now,  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  we 
are  of  a  mind  onco  more,  we  may  be  the  happiest  couple — and 
never  differ  again,  you  know — ha !  ha  !  ha  !  Well,  you  aro  go- 
ing to  be  in  a  passion,  I  see,  and  I  shall  only  interrupt  you  ;  so, 
bye — bye.  [Exit  Lady  Teazls. 

Sir  P.  Plagues  and  tortures !  Can't  I  make  her  angry 
either !  Oh,  I  am  the  most  miserable  fellow !  But  I'll  not  bear 
her  presuming  to  keep  her  temper  :  no !  she  may  break  my 
heart,  but  she  shan't  keep  her  temper.  [Exit. 

Sheridan. 

Richard  J5rinsley  Sheridan,  the  celebrated  orator,  statesman,  and  comic 
play-writer,  was  born  at  Dublin  in  1751.  His  father,  Thomas  Sheridan,  was 
well  known  as  an  actor,  elocutionist,  and  author  of  a  pronouncing  dictionary. 
Richard,  an  idle  and  mischievous  boy,  passed  at  school  for  a  hopeless  blockhead. 
He  left  Harrow  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  studied  law  with  indifferent  success  in 
the  Middle  Temple,  and,  when  barely  of  age,  made  a  runaway  marriage  with 
Miss  Linley,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  singer.  His  earliest  comedy,  "  The 
Rivals,"  a  humorous  and  lively  play,  appeared  in  1773,  when  the  author  was  lit- 
tle more  than  twenty-three  years -old.  About  the  same  period  he  became  one 
of  the  proprietors  of  Drury  Lane  Theater.  His  farce  of  "St.  Patrick's  Day," 
and  opera  of  "The  Duenna,"  appeared  in  177G;  and  "The  School  for  Scandal," 
which  in  plot,  character,  incident,  dialogue,  humor,  and  wit,  perhaps,  surpasses 
any  comedy  of  modern  times,  was  played  in  1777.  His  last  play,  "The  Critic," 
appeared  in  1779.  He  obtained  a  seat  in  parliament  in  17S0.  He  worked  hard 
for  the  House  of  Commons,  and,  in  his  great  efforts,  was  one  of  the  most  showy 
and  striking  of  parliamentary  orators.  His  famous  speech  on  the  trial  of  War- 
ren Hastings  produced  an  impression  on  the  public  mind  never,  perhaps,  sur- 
passed. Losing  his  wife  in  1792,  he  married  again,  in  179G,  a  lady  with  whom 
he  received  £5000;  and  with  this  money,  and  £15,000  from  shares  in  the  theater, 
he  purchased  an  estate,  but  his  sottish  habits  soon  dispelled  Lis  dreams  of  splen- 
dor, and  finally  reduced  him  to  penury.  He  was  treasurer  of  the  navy  during 
the  ministry  of  Fox  and  Grenvillc ;  but  after  1812  he  was  no  longer  able  to  speak 
in  the  house.    He  died  in  1816,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

V. 

19.     A    CURTAIN    LECTURE    OF    MRS.    CAUDLE. 

BAH  I  that's  the  third  umbrella  gone  since  Christmas.  'What 
were  you  to  do  ?     Why,  let  him  go  home  in  the  rain,  to  be 
sure.     I'm  very  certain  there  was  nothing  about  him  that  could 


A    CURTAIN    LECTURE    OF   MRS.   CAUDLE.  127 

spoil. — Take  cold,  indeed!  Ho  doesn't  look  like  one  of  the 
sort  to  take  cold.  Besides,  he'd  have  better  taken  cold  than 
taken  our  umbrella. — Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle?  I  say, 
do  you  hear  the  rain  ?  And,  as  I'm  alive,  if  it  isn't  St.  Swithin's 
day  !  Do  you  hear  it  against  the  windows  ?  Nonsense !  you 
don't  impose  upon  mo  ;  you  can't  be  asleep  with  such  a  shower 
as  that !  Do  you  hear  it,  I  say  ?  Oh !  you  do  hear  it !  Well, 
that's  a  pretty  flood,  I  think,  to  last  for  six  weeks  ;  and  no  stir- 
ring all  tho  time  out  of  the  house. 

2.  Pooh  !  don't  think  me  a  fool,  Mr.  Caudle  ;  don't  insult  me  ; 
he  return  the  umbrella !  Anybody  would  think  you  were  born 
yesterday.  As  if  anybody  ever  did  return  an  umbrella !  There  : 
do  you  hear  it  ?  Worse  and  worse.  Cats  and  dogs,  and  for  six 
weeks  :  always  six  weeks  ;  and  no  umbrella ! — I  should  like  to 
know  how  the  children  arc  to  go  to  school  to-morrow !  They 
shan't  go  through  such  weather  ;  I  am  determined.  No  ;  they 
shall  stop  at  home  and  never  learn  any  thing  (the  blessed  crea- 
tures!), sooner  than  go  and  get  wet!  And  when  they  grow  up, 
I  wonder  who  they'll  have  to  thank  for  knowing  nothing  :  who, 
indeed,  but  their  father.  People  who  can't  feel  for  their  own 
children  ousrht  never  to  be  fathers. 

o 

3.  But  I  know  why  you  lent  the  umbrella  :  oh !  yes,  I  know 
very  well.  I  was  going  out  to  tea  at  dear  mother's  to-morrow  : 
you  knew  that,  and  you  did  it  on  purpose.  Don't  tell  me  ;  you 
hate  to  have  me  go  there,  and  take  every  mean  advantage  to 
hinder  me.  But  don't  you  think  it,  Mr.  Caudle  ;  no,  sir  :  if  it 
comes  down  in  bucketfulls,  I'll  go  all  the  more.  No  ;  and  I 
won't  have  a  cab !  Where  do  you  think  the  money's  to  como 
from  ?  You'vo  got  nice  high  notions  at  that  club  of  yours !  A 
cab,  indeed !  Cost  me  sixteen-pence,  at  least.  Sixteen-penc©  ! 
two-and-eight-penco  ;  for  there's  back  again.  Cabs,  indeed !  I 
should  like  to  know  who's  to  pay  for  'em  ;  for  I'm  suro  you 
can't,  if  you  go  on  as  you  do,  throwing  away  your  property,  and 
beggaring  your  children,  buying  umbrellas ! 

4.  Do  you  hear  the  rain,  Mr.  Caudle  ?  I  say,  do  you  hear  it  ? 
But  I  don't  care — I'll  go  to  mother's  to-morrow — I  will ;  and 
what's  more,  I'll  walk  every  step  of  the  way  ;  and  you  know 
that  will  give  me  my  death.  Don't  call  me  a  foolish  woman  ; 
it's  you  that's  the  foolish  man.  You  know  I  can't  wear  clogs  ; 
and  with  no  umbrella,  the  wet's  sure  to  give  me  a  cold  :  it  always 


128  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

does  ;  but  what  do  you  care  for  that  ?  Nothing  at  all.  I  may  be 
laid  up,  for  what  you  care,  as  I  dare  say  I  shall ;  and  a  pretty 
doctor's  bill  there'll  bo.  I  hope  there  will.  It  will  teach  you  to 
lend  your  umbrellas  again.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  caught  my 
death  :  yes,  and  that'3  what  you  lent  the  umbrella  for.  Of  course ! 

5.  Nice  clothes  I  get,  too,  traipsing  through  weather  like  this. 
My  gown  and  bonnet  will  be  spoiled  quite.  Needn't  I  wear  'em, 
then  ?  Indeed,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  shall  wear  'em.  No,  sir ;  I'm  not 
going  out  a  dowdy,  to  please  you,  or  anybody  else.  Gracious 
knows  !  it  isn't  often  that  I  step  over  the  threshold  : — indeed,  I 
might  as  well  be  a  slave  at  once  :  better,  I  should  say  ;  but 
when  I  do  go  out,  Mr.  Caudle,  I  choose  to  go  as  a  lady. 

6.  Oh !  that  rain — if  it  isn't  enough  to  break  in  the  windows. 
Ugh !  I  look  forward  with  dread  for  to-morrow !  How  am  I  to 
go  to  mother's,  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell ;  but  if  I  die,  I'll  do  it. — No, 
sir  ;  I  won't  borrow  an  umbrella  :  no  ;  and  you  shan't  buy  one. 
Mr.  Caudle,  if  you  bring  home  another  umbrella,  I'll  throw  it 
into  the  street.  Ha !  And  it  was  only  last  week  I  had  a  new 
nozzle  put  to  that  umbrella.  I'm  sure  if  I'd  have  known  as 
much  as  I  do  now,  it  might  have  gone  without  one.  Paying 
for  new  nozzles  for  other  people  to  laugh  at  you !  Oh !  it's  all 
very  well  for  you  ;  you  can  go  to  sleep.  You've  no  thought  of 
your  poor  patient  wife,  and  your  own  dear  children  ;  you  think 
of  nothing  but  lending  umbrellas  !  Men,  indeed  ! — call  them- 
selves lords  of  the  creation !  pretty  lords,  when  they  can't  even 
take  care  of  an  umbrella  ! 

7.  I  know  that  walk  to-morrow  will  be  the  death  of  me.  But 
that's  what  you  want :  then  you  may  go  to  your  club,  and  do  as 
you  like  ;  and  then  nicely  my  poor  dear  children  will  be  used  ; 
but  then,  sir,  then  you'll  be  happy.  Oh!  don't  tell  me!  I 
know  you  will :  else  you'd  never  have  lent  the  umbrella  ! — You 
have  to  go  on  Thursday  about  that  summons  ;  and,  of  course, 
you  can't  go.  No,  indeed  :  you  don't  go  without  the  umbrella. 
You  may  loso  tho  debt,  for  whab  I  care — it  won't  be  so  much  as 
spoiling  your  clothes — better  loso  it  :  people  deserve  to  lose 
debts  who  lend  umbrellas ! 

8.  And  I  should  like  to  know  how  I'm  to  go  to  mother's  with- 
out the  umbrella.  Oh !  don't  tell  me  that  I  said  I  icould  go  ; 
that's  nothing  to  do  with  it, — nothing  at  all.  She'll  think  I'm 
neglecting  her  ;  and  the  little  money  we're  to  have,  we  shan't 


TIIAN'ATOPSIS.  129 

have  at  all  ; — because  we've  no  umbrella. — The  children,  too ! 
(dear  things!)  they'll  be  sopping  wet  :  for  they  shan't  stay  at 
home  ;  they  shan't  lose  their  learning  ;  it's  all  their  father  will 
leave  them,  I'm  sure !  But  they  shall  go  to  school.  DOn't  tell 
me  they  shouldn't  (you  are  so  aggravating,  Caudle,  you'd  spoil 
the  temper  of  an  angel !)  ;  they  ahall  go  to  school :  mark  that ! 
and  if  they  get  their  deaths  of  cold,  it's  not  my  fault ;  I  didn't 

LEND    THE    UMBRELLA.  JeRROLD. 

Douglas  Jekrold  was  born  in  London  on  the  3d  of  January,  1S03.  His  father, 
Samuel  Jerrold,  was  manager  of  the  two  theaters  of  Shccrness  and  Southend, 
and  in  these  sea-places  much  of  his  childhood  was  passed.  His  school-days 
were  few,  and  the  results  of  his  studies  unimportant.  At  eleven  years  of  age  he 
became  a  midshipman  in  the  British  navy,  and  served  about  two  years,  thns  ac- 
quiring nautical  experience,  which  he  used  in  writing  "  Black-eyed  Susan,"  one 
of  his  most  successful  plays.  A  mere  boy  when  he  came  ashore,  he  went  to 
London,  became  an  apprentice  in  a  printing-office,  and  went  through  the  ordi- 
nary course  of  a  printer's  life.  At  this  time,  though  the  hours  of  labor  were 
long,  he  studied  very  hard,  and  wrote  pieces  for  the  magazines.  Emboldened 
by  success,  he  wrote  numerous  plays  for  the  theaters  before  he  was  twenty  yens 
old.  Among  the  greatest  and  maturcst  of  his  comedies  arc  "The  Prisoner  of 
War,"  "Bubbles  of  a  Day,"  "Time  works  Wonders,"  "St.  Cupid,"  and  "The 
Heart  of  Gold."  His  chief  brilliant  and  original  prose  writings,  except  "A  Man 
made  of  Money,"  were  first  prepared  for  magazines.  "  Men  of  Character"  ap- 
peared in  "Blackwood's  Magazine,"— " The  Chronicles  of  Clovernook,"  in  the 
"  Illuminated  Magazine,"  of  which  he  was  founder  and  editor, — and  "  The  Story 
of  a  Feather,"  "Punch's  Letters  to  his  Son,"  and  "The  Caudle  Lectures"  in 
"  Punch,"  of  which  he  was  the  originator.  The  last  literary  event  in  his  life 
was  his  assuming  the  editorship  of  "  Lloyd's  Newspaper,"  which  rose  under  his 
hand  to  great  circulation  and  celebrity.  He  died,  from  disease  of  the  heart,  on 
the  8th  of  June,  1857. 


SECTION    V. 
I 

20.     TIIANATOPSIS.1 


TO  him,  who,  in  the  love  of  naturo  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours, 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile, 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild, 

1  Th^n^  a  top'  sis,  this  Greek  word  means  a  view  of,  or  meditation  on,  death, 


130  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

And  gentle  sympathy  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware. 

2.  "When  thoughts 
Of  the  last  biLter  hour,  come  like  a  blight 
Over  thy  spirit,  and  sad  images 

Of  the  stern  agony,  and  shroud,  and  pall, 

And  breathless  darkmss,  and  the  narrow  house, 

Make  thee  to  shudder,  and  grow  sick  at  heart ; 

Go  forth  into  the  open  sky,  and  list 

To  nature's  teaching,  while,  from  all  around, 

Comes  a  still  voice  : 

3.  "  Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee, 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more, 

In  all  his  course  ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 

Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 

Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean  shall  exist 

Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 

Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again  : 

And,  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 

Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go, 

To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 

To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 

And  to  the  sluggish  clod  which  the  rude  swain 

Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mold. 

4.  "  Yet  not,  to  thy  eternal  resting-place, 

Shalt  thou  retire,  alone — nor  couldst  thou  wish 
Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 
With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth,  the  wise,  the  good, 
Fail*  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  agc3  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. 

5.  "  The  hills, 
Rock-ribbed,  and  ancient  as  the  sun  ;  the  vales, 
Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between  ; 

The  venerable  woods  :  rivers  that  movo 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadow  green  ;  and  poured  round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste, 


THANATOPSIS.  131 

Aro  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 
Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 
The  planets,  all  the  mfinito  host  of  heaven, 
Aro  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 
Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages. 

G.  "All  that  tread 

The  globe,  are  but  a  handful,  to  the  tribes 
That  slumber  in  its  bosom.     Take  the  wings 
Of  morning,  and  the  Barcan  desert  pierce, 
Or,  lose  thyself  in  the  continuous  woods, 
Where  rolls  the  Or'egon,  and  hears  no  sound, 
Save  its  own  dashings — yet  the  dead  are  there  ; 
And  millions  in  those  solitudes,  since  first 
The  flight  of  years  began,  have  laid  them  down 
In  their  last  sleep  :  the  dead  reign  there  alone. 

7.  "  So  shalt  thou  rest ;  and  what,  if  thou  shalt  fall, 
Unnoticed  by  the  living,  and  no  friend 

Take  note  of  thy  departure  ?     All  that  breathe 
Will  share  thy  destiny.     The  gay  will  laugh, 
When  thou  art  gone  ;  the  solemn  brood  of  care 
Plod  on  ;  and  each  one,  as  before,  will  chase 
His  favorite  phantom  ;  yet,  all  these  shall  leave 
Their  mirth,  and  their  enjoyments,  and  shall  come 
And  make  their  bed  with  thee. 

8.  "  As  the  long  train 
Of  ages  glide  away,  the  sons  of  men, 

The  youth,  in  life's  green  spring,  and  he,  who  goes 
In  the  full  strength  of  years,  matron,  and  maid, 
The  bowed  with  age,  the  infant,  in  the  smiles 
And  beauty  of  its  innocent  age  cut  off — 
Shall,  one  by  one,  be  gathered  to  thy  side, 
By  those  who,  in  their  turn,  shall  follow  them. 

9.  "  So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes,  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 

To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go,  not  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 


132  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Like  one  who  wrajDS  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dream3  I" 

W.  C.  Bryant. 

William  Ccllen  Bryant  was  born  in  Cummington,  Massachusetts,  on  the 
third  day  of  November,  1794.  He  gave  indications  of  superior  genius  at  a  very 
early  age ;  and  fortunately  received  the  most  careful  and  judicious  instruction 
from  his  father,  a  learned  and  eminent  physician.  At  ten  years  of  age,  he  made 
very  creditable  translations  from  some  of  the  Latin  poets,  which  were  printed 
in  a  newspaper  at  Northampton.  At  thirteen,  he  wrote  "  The  Embargo,"  a  po< 
litical  satire,  which  was  never  surpassed  by  any  poet  of  that  age.  Bryant  en« 
tered  an  advanced  class  of  Williams  College  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age,  in 
which  he  soon  became  distinguished  for  his  attainments  generally,  and  espe- 
cially for  his  proficiency  in  classical  learning.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in 
1815,  and  commenced  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  the  village  of  Great  Bar- 
rington,  where  he  was  soon  after  married.  He  wrote  the  above  noble  poem — 
"  Thanatopsis  " — when  but  little  more  than  eighteen  years  of  age.  In  1821  he 
delivered  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of  Harvard  College  his  longest  poem, 
"  The  Ages,"  which  is  in  the  stanza  of  Spenser,  and  in  its  versification  is  not  in- 
ferior to  "The  Faerie  Qucene."  "  To  a  Waterfowl,'*  "Inscription  for  an  entrance 
to  a  Wood,"  and  several  other  pieces  of  nearly  equal  merit  were  likewise  written 
during  his  residence  at  Great  Barrington.  After  passing  ten  years  in  successful 
practice  in  the  courts,  he  determined  to  abandon  the  uncongenial  business  of  a 
lawyer,  and  devote  his  attention  more  exclusively  to  literature.  With  this  view, 
he  removed  to  the  city  of  New  York  in  1825,  and,  with  a  friend,  established  "  The 
New  York  Review  and  Athenaeum  Magazine,"  in  which  he  published  several  of 
his  finest  poems.  In  1820  he  assumed  the  chief  direction  of  the  "  Evening  Post," 
one  of  the  best  gazettes  iu  this  country,  with  which  he  has  ever  since  been  con- 
nected. In  the  summer  of  1S34,  Mr.  Bryant  visited  Europe,  with  his  family, 
where  he  remained  till  1830,  when  the  illness  of  his  partner  and  associate,  tho 
late  William  Leggctt,  caused  his  hasty  return.  A  splendid  edition  of  his  com- 
plete poetical  works  was  published  in  1840.  His  last  volume  entitled  "  Thirty 
Poems,"  appeared  in  180-i.  He  is  a  favorite  with  men  of  every  variety  of  tastes. 
He  has  passages  of  profound  reflection  for  the  philosopher,  and  others  of  such 
simple  beauty  as  to  please  the  most  illiterate.  He  has  few  equals  in  grace  and 
power  of  expression.  Every  line  has  compactness,  precision,  and  elegance,  and 
flows  with  its  fellows  in  exquisite  harmony.  Mr.  Bryant  is  the  poet  of  nature. 
He  places  before  us,  in  picturos  warmly  colored  by  the  hues  of  the  imagination, 
the  old  and  shadowy  forests,  the  sea-like  prairies,  the  lakes,  rivers,  and  moun- 
tains of  our  own  country.  To  the  thoughtful  critic  every  thing  in  his  verse  be- 
longs to  America,  and  is  as  different  from  what  marks  the  poetry  of  England  as 
it  is  from  that  which  most  distinguishes  the  poetry  of  France  or  Germany. 

n. 

21.     EUTHANASIA.1 

METHINKS,  when  on  the  languid  eye 
Life's  autumn  scenes  grow  dim, — 
When  evening's  shadows  veil  the  shy. 


1  Euthanasia,  (yiV  than  a'  z.i  5),  an  easy  death  ;  a  mode  of  dYrn^  to  be  desired. 


EUTHANASIA.  133 

And  pleasure's  siren  '  hymn 
Grows  fainter  on  the  tuneless  oar, 
Like  echoes  from  another  sphere, 

Or  dream  of  seraphim, — 
It  were  not  sad  to  cast  away 
This  dull  and  cumbrous  load  of  clay. 

2.  It  were  not  sad  to  feel  the  heart 

Grow  passionless  and  cold  ; 
To  feel  those  longings  to  depart 

That  cheered  the  good  of  old  ; 
To  clasp  the  faith  wrhich  looks  on  high, 
"Which  fires  the  Christian's  dying  eye, 

And  makes  the  curtain-fold, 
That  falls  upon  his  wasting  breast, 
The  door  that  leads  to  endless  rest. 

3.  It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  lie 

On  that  triumphant  bed, 
Till  the  pure  spirit  mounts  on  high, 

By  white-winged  seraphs  led  : 
"Where  glories  earth  may  neycr  know 
O'er  "  many  mansions  "  lingering  glow, 

In  peerless  luster  shed  ; 
It  were  not  lonely  thus  to  soar, 
"Where  sin  and  grief  can  sting  no  more. 

4.  And,  though  the  way  to  such  a  goal 

Lies  through  the  clouded  toinb, 
If  on  the  free,  unfettered  soul 

There  rest  no  stains  of  gloom, 
How  should  its  aspirations  riso 
Far  through  the  blue,  unpillarcd  skies, 

Up  to  its  final  home  ! 

Beyond  the  journeyings  of  the  sun, 

Where  streams  of  living  waters  run. 

W.  G.  Class. 

Willis  Gatlokd  Clakk,  a  journalist,  poet,  and  miscellaneous  writer,  was  born 


1  Si'  reu,  one  of  three  damsels, —  who  sailed  by  forgot  their  country, 
or,  according  to  some  writers,  of  two,  and  died  in  an  ecstacy  of  delight; 
— '■said  to  dwell  near  the  Island  of  hence,  an  enticing,  alluring,  or  dan- 
Caprea,  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  to  gcrous  woman;  one  rendered  dan- 
sing  "with  such  sweetness  that  they  gerous  by  her  enticements. 


134:  NATIONAL,    FIFTH    READER. 

at  Otisco,  an  agricultural  town  in  Central  New  York,  in  the  3Tear  1810.  Stimu- 
lated  by  the  splendid  scenery  outspread  on  every  side  around  him,  he  began  to 
feel  the  poetic  impulse  at  an  early  age ;  and,  in  numbers  most  musical,  painted 
the  beauties  of  nature  with  singular  fidelity.  As  he  grew  older,  a  solemnity  and 
gentle  sadness  of  thought  pervaded  his  verse,  and  evinced,  his  desire  to  gather 
from  the  scenes  and  images  its  reflected  lessons  of  morality.  When  about  twen- 
ty years  of  age,  he  repaired  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  commenced  a  weekly 
miscellany,  which  was  soon  abandoned.  He  then  assumed,  with  the  Reverend 
Doctor  Brantley,  the  charge  of  the  "  Columbian  Star,"  a  religious  and  literary 
periodical,  of  high  character,  in  which  he  printed  many  brief  poems  of  consid- 
erable merit.  Some  years  later,  he  took  charge  of  the  "  Philadelphia  Gazette," 
one  of  the  oldest  and  most  respectable  journals  in  Pennsylvania,  of  which  he 
ultimately  became  proprietor,  and  from  that  time  until  his  death  continued  to 
conduct  it.  In  1836  he  married  Anne  Poyntell  Caldcleugh,  the  daughter  of  one 
of  the  wealthiest  citizens  of  Philadelphia,  and  a  woman  of  great  personal  beau- 
ty, rare  accomplishments,  and  affectionate  disposition,  who  soon  after  died  of 
consumption,  leaving  her  husband  a  prey  to  the  deepest  melancholy.  From  this 
time  his  health  gradually  declined,  though  he  continued  to  write  for  his  paper 
until  the  last  day  of  his  life,  the  twelfth  of  June,  1841.  His  metrical  writings, 
which  are  pervaded  by  a  gentle  religious  melancholy,  are  all  distinguished  for  a 
graceful  and  elegant  diction,  thoughts  morally  and  poetically  beautiful,  and 
chaste  and  appropriate  imagery.  His  prose  writings,  on  the  other  hand,  were 
usually  marked  by  passages  of  irresistible  humor  and  wit.  His  perception  of 
the  ludicrous  was  acute,  and  his  jests  and  "cranks  and  wanton  wiles"  evinced 
the  fullness  of  his  powers  and  the  benevolence  of  his  feelings. 

m. 

22.     BROKEN    HEARTS. 

PART   FIRST. 

MAN  is  the  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His  nature 
leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the  -world. 
Love  is  but  the  embellishment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped 
in  the  intervals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune,  for 
space  in  the  world's  thought,  and  dominion  over  his  fellow-men. 
But  a  woman's  whole  life  is  a  historv  of  the  affections.  The 
heart  is  her  world  :  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for  empire  ; 
it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures.  She  sends 
forth  her  sympathies  on  adventure  :  she  embarks  her  whole 
soul  in  the  traffic  of  affection  ;  and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is 
hopeless — for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of  the  heart. 

2.  To  a  man,  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion  somo 
bitter  pangs  :  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderntss — it  blasts 
some  prospects  of  felicity  ;  but  he  is  an  active  being — he  may 
dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occupation,  or  may 
plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure  :  or,  if  the  scene  of  disappoint- 


BROKEN    HEARTS.  135 

inent  be  too  full  of  painful  associations,  ho  can  shift  his  abode 
at  will,  and  taking  as  it  were  the  wings  of  the  morning,  can  "  fly 
to  the  uttermost  part  of  the  earth,  and  be  at  rest." 

3.  But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  and  a 
meditative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own  thoughts 
and  feelings  ;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers  of  sorrow, 
where  shall  she  look  for  consolation  ?  Her  lot  is  to  be  wooed 
and  won  ;  and  if  unhappy  in  her  love,  her  heart  is  like  some 
fortress  that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked,  and  abandoned, 
and  left  desolate. 

4.  How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim — how  many  soft  cheeks 
grow  pale — how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomb, 
and  none  can  tell  the  causo  that  blighted  their  loveliness  !  As 
the  dove  will  clasp  it3  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and  conceal 
the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals,  so  it  is  the  nature  of 
woman  to  hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of  wounded  affection. 

5.  The  love  of  a  delicate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent. 
Even  when  fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes  it  to  herself ;  but 
when  otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses  of  her  bosom,  and 
there  lets  it  cower  and  brood  among  the  ruins  of  her  peace. 
Wifti  her  the  desire  of  the  heart  has  failed.  The  great  charm 
of  existence  is  at  an  end.  She  neglects  all  the  cheerful  exer- 
cises which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken  the  pulses,  and  send  the 
tide  of  life  in  healthful  currents  through  the  veins.  Her  rest  is 
broken — the  sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  melan- 
choly dreams — "  dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blood,''  until  her  en- 
feebled frame  sinks  under  the  slightest  external  injury. 

G.  Look  for  her,  after  a  little  while,  and  you  will  find  friend- 
ship weeping  over  her  untimely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one 
who  but  lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance'  of  health  and 
beauty,  should  so  speedily  be  brought  down  to  "  darkness  and 
the  worm."  You  will  be  told  of  some  wintry  chill,  some  casual 
indisposition  that  laid  her  low  ;  but  no  one  knows  of  the  mental 
malady  that  previously  sapped  her  strength,  and  made  her  so 
easy  a  prey  to  the  spoiler. 

7.  She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the 
grove  ;  graceful  in  its  form,  bright  in  its  foliage,  but  with  the 
worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  withering  when 
it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  drooping  its 
branches  to  the  earth  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf  ;  until,  wasted 


136  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the  forest ;  and 
as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in  vain  to  recollect 
the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could  have  smitten  it  with  decay. 
8.  I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste 
and  self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth, 
almost  as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven  ;  and  have  repeat- 
edly fancied  that  I  could  trace  their  death  through  the  various 
declensions  of  consumption,  cold,  debility,  languor,  melancholy, 
until  I  reached  the  first  symptom  of  disappointed  love.  But  an 
instanco  of  the  kind  was  lately  told  to  me  ;  the  circumstances 
are  well  known  in  the  country  where  they  happened,  and  I  shall 
but  give  them  in  the  manner  they  were  related. 

IV. 

23.     BROKEN    HEARTS. 

PART   SECOND. 

EVERY  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young  Ern- 
mett,1  the  Irish  patriot :  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  for- 
gotten. During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  condemned, 
and  executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.2  His  fate  made  a  deep 
impression  on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so  young — so  intelli- 
gent— so  generous — so  brave — so  everything  that  we  are  apt  to 
like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so  lofty 
and  intrepid ! 3  The  noble  indignation  with  which  he  repelled 
the  charge  of  treason  against  his  country — the  eloquent  vindi- 
cation* of  his  name — and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity,  in 
the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation — all  these  entered  deeply 
into  every  generous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented  the 
stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

2.  But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impos- 
sible to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes,  he  had 
won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  in'teresting  girl,  the  daugh- 

1  Robert  Emmett,  the  Irish  patri-  ing  the  state  into  the  hands  of  a 

ot,  was  born  in  1780.     He  was  exc-  foreign  power, 

cuted  on  the  20th  of  September,  1803.  3  In  trep'  id,  undaunted ;   brave. 

3  Treason,  (tre'  zn),  the  offense  of  *  VinN  di  ca'  tion,    a  justification 

attempting  to  overthrow  the  govern-  against  censure,  objections,  or  accu- 

raent  of  the  state  to  which  the  of-  sations ;  defense  by  proof,  force,  or 

fender  owes  allegiance,  or  of  betray-  otherwise. 


BROKEN    HEARTS.  137 

ter  of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.1  She  loved  him  with  the 
disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early  love.  When 
every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him  ;  when  blasted 
in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around  liiij  name, 
she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  Bufferings.  If,  then, 
his  fate  could  awaken  tho  sympathy  even  of  hi3  foGS,  what  must 
have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whoso  whole  soul  was  occupied  by 
his  image  ?  Let  those  tell  who  have  had  the  portals  of  the  tomb 
suddenly  closed  botween  them  and  the  being  they  most  loved 
on  earth — who  havo  sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one  shut  out  in  a 
cold  and  lonely  world,  from  whence  all  that  was  most  lovely  and 
loving  had  departed. 

3.  But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave  !  so  frightful,  so  dis- 
honored !  There  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on  that  could 
soothe  the  pang  of  separation — none  of  those  tender  though 
melancholy  circumstances  that  endear  tho  parting  scene — noth- 
ing to  melt  sorrow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent,  like  the  dews 
of  heaven,  to  revive  the  heart  in  the  parting  hour  of  anguish. 

4.  To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  father's  displeasure  by  her  unfortunate  attachment, 
and  was  an  exile  from  the  paternal  roof.  But  could  tho  sympa- 
thy and  kind  offices  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so  shocked 
and  driven  in  by  horror,  she  would  have  experienced  no  want 
of  consolation,  for  the  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and  generous 
sensibilities.  The  most  delicate  and  cherishing  attentions  were 
paid  her  by  families  of  wealth  and  distinction.  She  was  led  into 
society,  and  they  tried  by  all  kinds  of  occupation  and  amuse- 
ment to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her  from  the  tragical  story 
of  her  love. 

5.  But  it  was  all  in  vain.  There  are  some  strokes  of  calamity 
that  scath  and  scorch  the  soul — that  penetrate  to  the  vital  scat 
of  happiness,  and  blast  it,  never  again  to  put  forth  bud  or  blos- 
som. She  never  objected  to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  but 
she  was  as  much  alone  there  as  in  the  depths  of  solitude.  She 
walked  about  in  a  sad  reverie,  apparently  unconscious  of  tho 
world  around  her.  Sho  carried  with  her  an  inward  woo  that 
mocked  at  all  the  blandishments  of  friendship,  and  "  heeded 
not  the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm  he  never  so  wisely." 

5  John  Philpot  Curran,  celebrated  for  his  eloquence,  wit,  and  sarcasm, 
born  near  C<  rk,  1750,  and  died  1817. 


138  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

6.  The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  mas- 
querade. 1  There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretchedness 
more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.  To 
nnd  it  wandering  like  a  specter,  lonely  and  joyless,  where  all 
around  is  gay — to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth, 
and  looking  so  wan  and  woe-begone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in  vain  to 
cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow. 

7.  After  strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd 
with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she  sat  herself  down  on  the 
steps  of  an  orchestra,  and  looking  about  for  some  time  with  a 
vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the  gairish2  scene, 
she  began,  with  the  capriciousness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble 
a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an  ex'quisite  voice  ;  but  on  this 
occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so  touching,  it  breathed  forth  such  a 
soul  of  wretchedness,  that  she  drew  a  crowd  mute  and  silent 
around  her,  and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

8.  The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It  com- 
pletely won  the  heart  of  a  brave  officer,  who  paid  his  addresses 
to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  dead  could  not  but 
prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined  his  attentions,  for 
her  thoughts  were  irrev'ocably  engrossed  by  the  memory  of  her 
former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in  his  suit.  He  solicited 
not  her  tenderness,  but  her  esteem.  He  was  assisted  by  her 
conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense  of  her  own  destitute  and 
dependent  situation,  for  she  was  existing  on  the  kindness  of 
friends.  In  a  word,  he  at  length  succeeded  in  gaining  her  hand, 
though  with  the  solemn  assurance  that  her  heart  was  unaltera- 
bly another's. 

9.  He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of 
scene  might  wear  out  the  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She  was 
an  amiable  and  ex'emplary 3  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be  a  happy 
one  ;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring  melan- 
choly that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul.  She  wasted  away  in 
a  slow  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into  the  grave, 
the  victim  of  a  broken  heart.  Washington  Irving. 

1  Masquerade,    (mis  kcr  id')    an  »  Gairish,  (gar'isli), gaudy;  showy; 

evening  assembly  of  persons  weari  ng  very  fine. 

masks,  and  amusing  themselves  with  3  Exemplary,  (egz'cm  pier  I),  serv- 

dancing,  conversation,  etc.  ing  as  a  pattern  ;  commendable. 


LINES    RELATING    TO    CURRAN'S   DAUGHTER.         139 

V. 

24.    LINES  RELATING  TO  CURRAN'S  DAUGHTER. 

SHE  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 
And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing  ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 
For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

2.  She  sings  the  wild  song  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking — 
Ah  !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 
How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking. 

3.  He  had  lived  for  his  love — for  his  country  he  died  ; 

They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him — 
Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 

4.  Oh !  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest, 

Allien  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow  ; 
They'll  shine  o'er  her  sleep  like  a  smile  from  the  west, 
From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow.     Thomas  Moore. 

Thomas  Mooke,  the  poet,  was  born  in  Dublin,  in  17S0.  He  showed  from  boy« 
hood  an  imaginative  and  musical  turn  ;  and  various  circumstances  combined  in 
impressing  him  early  with  that  deep  sense  of  the  wrongs  and  sufferings  of  Ire- 
land to  which  his  poetry  owes  so  many  of  its  most  powerful  touches.  He  was 
educated  at  Trinity  College,  where  he  took  his  degree  in  17'JS,  after  which  he 
went  to  London  to  keep  his  terms  for  the  bar.  Poetry  however  had  taken  pos- 
session of  his  mind  ;  and  his  gay  translation  of  Anacreon  was  published  in  1800. 
In  1S04,  having  obtained  a  rcgistrarship  in  Bermuda,  he  went  out  to  discharge 
the  duties  of  the  office.  It  proved  much  less  lucrative  than  he  expected ;  and 
in  a  few  months  he  returned  home,  from  which  time  his  course  of  life  was  very 
uneventful.  In  1S11  he  married  Miss  Dyke,  an  amiable,  attractive,  and  domestic 
lady.  He  soon  after  established  himself  permanently  at  Sloperton,  near  Devizes, 
visiting  London,  however,  frequently,  and  making  other  excursions.  In  1835 
he  received  from  government  a  pension  of  £300  a  year;  and  in  1S50,  when  his 
health  was  completely  broken,  Mrs.  Moore  obtained  a  pension  of  a  hundred 
pounds.  He  died  in  the  beginning  of  1852.  Of  his  serious  poems,  M  Irish  Mel- 
odies," and  "  Lalla  Rookh  "  best  support  his  fame.  Many  pieces  of  the  former 
are  exquisite  for  grace  of  diction,  for  beauty,  and  for  a  refined  and  ideal  kind  of 
pathos.  The  latter  evinces  great  skill  and  care  of  execution,  with  marvelous 
richness  of  fancy,  and  singular  correctness  of  costume,  and  establishes  his  claim 
to  an  important  place  among  the  great  painters  of  romantic  narrative.  Moore's 
political  satires,  perhaps,  show  his  genius  in  a  more  brilliant  light  than  any  of 
his  other  works.  Of  his  prose  writings,  the  most  noted  and  worthy  is  the  gor- 
geous romance  of  "  The  Epicurean,"  which  appeared  in  1827. 


140 


NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 


VI. 

25.     THE    BRIDGE    OF  SIGHS. 


1. 

ONE  more  unfortunate, 
Weary  of  breath, 
Hashly  importunate,1 
Gone  to  her  death ! 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly — 
Young,  and  so  fair ! 

2. 

Look  at  her  garments, 
Clinging  like  cerements,3 
"While  the  wave  constantly 

Drips  from  her  clothing  ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 

Loving,  not  loathing ! 
3. 
Touch  her  not  scornfully ! 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 

Gently  and  humanly — 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her  ; 
All  that  remains  of  her 

Now  is  pure  womanly. 
4. 
Make  no  deep  scrutiny, 
Into  her  mutiny, 

Rash  and  undutiful ; 
Past  all  dishonor, 
Death  has  left  on  her 

Only  the  beautiful. 
5. 
Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers — 

One  of  Eve's  family — 

» Im  port'  u  nate,  over-pressing  in  5  Cere'  ment,  cloth  dipped  in 
request  or  demand;  troublesomely  melted  wax,  and  wrapped  about  dead 
urgent.  bodies  previous  to  embalming. 


Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers, 

Oozing  so  clammily. 
Loop  up  her  tresses 

Escaped  from  the  comb — 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses — 
While  wonderment  guesses, 

Where  was  her  home  ? 
6. 

Who  was  her  father  ? 

Who  was  her  mother  ? 

Had  she  a  sister  ? 

Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 

Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

7. 
Alas !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 

Under  the  sun ! 
Oh !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 

Home  she  had  none. 
8. 
Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 

Feelings  had  changed — 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Throwrn  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  j)rovidenco 

Seeming  estranged. 

9. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 
So  far  in  the  river, 


THE    BRIDGE    OF    6IGHS. 


U) 


With  many  a  light 
From  window  and  casement, 
From  garret  to  basement, 
She  stood,  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 
10. 
The  bleak  wind  ot  March 

Made  her  tremble  and  shiver; 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 

Or  the  black,  flowing  river  : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 
Glad  to  death's  mystery, 

Swift  to  be  hurled — 
Any  where — any  where 

Out  of  the  world  ! 
11, 
In  she  plunged  boldly — 
No  matter  how  coldly 

The  rough  river  ran — 
Over  the  brink  of  it! 
Picture  it — think  of  it ! 

Dissolute  Man ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 

Then,  if  you  can  ! — 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 

Lift  her  with  care ! 
Fashioned  so  slenderly, 

Young,  and  so  fair. 


12. 

Ere  her  limbs,  frigidly, 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 

Decentlv,  kindlv, 
Smooth  and  compose  them  ; 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 

Staring  so  blindly  I 

13. 

Dreadfully  staring 

Through  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 

Fixed  on  futurity. 

14. 

Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurred  by  contumely,1 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 

Into  her  rest ! 
Cross  her  hands  humblv, 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 

Over  her  breast ! 
Owning  her  weakness, 

Her  evil  behavior, 
And  leaving  with  meekness 

Her  sins  to  her  Saviour ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


Thomas  Hood,  humorist  and  poet,  was  born  at  London,  in  179$.  The  best 
incident  of  his  early  boyhood  was  his  instruction  by  a  schoolmaster  who  appre- 
ciated his  talents,  and  was  so  interested  in  teaching  as  to  render  it  impossible 
not  to  interest  his  pupil.  At  this  period  he  earned  his  first  fee — a  few  guineas— 
by  revising  for  the  press  a  new  edition  of  "  Paul  and  Virginia.''  In  his  fifteenth 
year,  after  receiving  a  miscellaneous  education,  he  was  placed  in  the  counting- 
house  of  a  Russian  merchant;  but,  soon  after  learned  the  art  of  engraving.  In 
1821,  having  already  written  fugitive  papers  for  periodicals,  he  became  sub- 
editor of  the  "London  Magazine,"  a  position  which  at  once  introduced  him  to 
the  best  literary  society  of  the  time.  "  Odes  and  Addresses  "  soon  after  appear 
ed.  "  Whims  and  Oddities,"  "National  Tales/'  "Tylncy  Hall,"  a  novel,  and 
uThe  Plea  of  the  Midsummer  Fairies,"  followed.     In  these,  the  humorous  lac- 

1  C3n'  tu  me  ly,  rudeness  or  reproach  compounded  of  haughtiness  and 
contempt ;  despiteful  treatment. 


142  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

ulty  not  only  predominated,  but  expressed  itself  with  a  freshness,  originality, 
and  power,  which  the  poetical  element  could  not  claim.  There  was,  however, 
much  true  poetry  in  the  verse,  and  much  sound  sense  and  keen  observation  in 
the  prose  of  these  works.  After  publishing  several  annuals,  he  started  a  maga- 
zine in  his  own  name.  Though  aided  by  men  of  reputation  and  authority,  this 
work,  which  he  conducted  with  surprising  energy,  was  mainly  sustained  by  his 
own  intellectual  activity.  At  this  time,  confined  to  a  sick-bed,  from  which  he 
never  rose,  in  his  anxiety  to  provide  for  his  wife  and  children,  he  composed 
those  poems,  too  few  in  number,  but  immortal  in  the  English  language,  sv^h  as 
the  "  Song  of  the  Shirt,"  the  "  Song  of  the  Laborer,"  and  the  "  Bridge  of  Sighs." 
His  death  occurred  on  the  3d  of  May,  1845. 


vn. 

26.     SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE. 

I.    SUCCESSION    OF    HUMAN    BEINGS. 

LIKE  leaves  on  trees  the  life  of  man  is  found, 
Now  green  in  youth,  now  withering  on  the  ground  ; 
Another  race  the  following  spring  supplies, 
They  fall  successive,  and  successive  rise  : 
So  generations  in  their  course  decay  ; 
So  nourish  these,  when  those  have  passed  away. 

II.    DEATH    OF    THE    YOUNG    AND    FAIR. 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  rose  blown  from  its  parent  stem  ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  pearl  dropped  from  some  diadem  ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  lay  along  a  moonlit  lake  ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  the  song  of  birds  amid  the  brake  ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  the  snow  on  flowers  dissolved  away  ; 
She  died  in  beauty,  like  a  star  lost  on  the  brow  of  day  ; — 
She  lives  in  glory,  like  Night's  gems  set  round  the  silver  moon ; 
She  lives  in  glory,  like  the  sun  amid  the  blue  of  June. 

TIL    A   LADY    DROWNED.— Procter. 

Is  she  dead  ?  . . . 
Why  so  shall  I  be, — ere  these  autumn  blasts 
Have  blown  on  the  beard  of  Winter.     Is  she  dead  ? 
Ay,  she  is  dead, — quite  dead!     The  wild  Sea  kissed  her 
Wifli  its  cold  white  lips,  and  then — put  her  to  sleep  : 
She  has  a  sand  pillow,  and  a  water  sheet, 
And  never  turns  her  head  or  knows  'tis  morning ! 
IV.    LIFE    OF   MAN. -Beaumont. 
Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IX    VERSE.  14;j 

Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood  : 
E'en  such  is  man,  whose  borrowed  light 
Is  straight  called  in  and  paid  to-night : 
The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies  ; 
The  spring  entombed  in  autumn  lies  ; 
The  dew's  dried  up,  the  star  is  shot, 
The  flight  is  past,  and  man  forgot. 
V.    CORONACH.'— Scott. 
He  is  gone  on  the  mountain,  he  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain,  when  our  need  was  the  sorest ; 
The  fount,  reappearing,  from  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering,  to  Duncan  no  morrow ! 
The  hand  of  the  reaper  takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper  wails  manhood  in  glory  ; 
The  autumn  winds  rushing  waft  the  leaves  that  are  serest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing  when  blighting  was  nearest. — 
Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,3  sage  counsel  in  cumber,' 
Bed  hand  in  the  foray,4  how  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain,  like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain,  thou  art  gone,  and  forever ! 
VI.     IMMORTALITY.—  It.  II.  Dana. 
"Man,  thou  shalt  never  die !"     Celestial  voices 
Hymn  it  unto  our  souls  :  according  harps, 
By  angel  fingers  touched,  when  the  mild  stars 
Of  morning  sang  together,  sound  forth  still 
The  song  of  our  great  immortality  ! 
Thick-clustering  orbs  on  this  our  fair  domain, 
The  tall,  dark  mountains,  and  the  deep-toned  seas, 
Join  in  this  solemn,  universal  song. 
O  listen,  ye  our  spirits !  drink  it  in 
From  all  the  air !     'Tis  in  the  gentle  moonlight ; 
'Tis  floating  mid  day's  setting  glories  ;  night, 
Wrapped  in  her  sable 5  robe,  with  silent  step, 

J  Coronach,  (koV  o  uak),  a  song  of  3  Cum'  ber,  perplexity ;  distress, 

lamentation  .  a  lament.  4  Fo'  ray,  a  sudden  pillaging  in- 

'  Correi,   (kor'  ra),  the   side  of  a  cmsion  in  peace  or  war. 

hill  where  game  usually  lies.  *  Sa'  ble,  dark  ;  black. 


144  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Comes  to  our  bed,  and  breathes  it  in  our  ears. 
Night  and  the  dawn,  bright  day  and  thoughtful  eve, 
All  time,  all  bounds,  the  limitless  expanse, 
As  one  vast  mystic l  instrument,  are  touched 
By  an  unseen,  living  hand,  and  conscious  chords 
Quiver  with  joy  in  this  great  jubilee  : 2 
The  dying  hear  it ;  and,  as  sounds  of  earth 
Grow  dull  and  distant,  wake  their  passing  souls 
To  mingle  in  this  heavenly  harmony. 

vni. 

27.     SELECTED    EXTRACTS. 

THE  man  who  carries  a  lantern  in  a  dark  night,  can  have 
friends  all  around  him,  walking  safely  by  the  help  of  its 
rays,  and  he  be  not  defrauded.  So  he  who  has  the  God-given 
light  of  hope  in  his  breast,  can  help  on  many  others  in  this 
world's  darkness,  not  to  his  own  loss,  but  to  his  precious  gain. 

2.  As  a  rose  after  a  shower,  bent  down  by  tear-drops,  waits 
for  a  passing  breeze  or  a  kindly  hand  to  shake  its  branches, 
that,  lightened,  it  may  stand  once  more  upon  its  stem, — so  one 
who  is  bowed  down  with  affliction  longs  for  a  friend  to  lift  him 
out  of  his  sorrow,  and  bid  him  once  more  rejoice.  Happ}r  is  the 
man  who  has  that  in  his  soul  which  acts  upon  the  dejected  like 
April  airs  upon  violet  roots. 

3.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  cactus  growing  ?  "What  a  dry,  ugly, 
spiny  thing  it  is !  But  suppose  your  gardener  takes  it  when  just 
sprouting  forth  with  buds,  and  lets  it  stand  a  week  or  two,  and 
then  brings  it  to  you,  and  lo  !  it  is  a  blaze  of  light,  glorious  above 
all  flowers.  So  the  poor  and  lowly,  when  God's  time  comes,  and 
they  begin  to  stand  up  and  blossom,  how  beautiful  they  will  be ! 

4.  The  sun  does  not  shine  for  a  few  trees  and  flowers,  but  for 
the  wide  world's  joy.  The  lonely  pine  upon  the  mountain-top 
waves  its  somber  boughs,  and  cries,  "  Thou  art  my  sun."  And 
the  little  meadow  violet  lifts  its  cup  of  blue,  and  whispers  with 
its  perfumed  breath,  "  Thou  art  my  sun."  And  the  grain  in  a 
thousand  fields  rustles  in  the  wind,  and  makes  answer,  "  Thou 

1  Mys'  tic,  obscure  ;  involving  fiftieth  year,  when  the  bondsmen 
some  secret  meaning.  were  all  set  free  and  lauds  restored 

3  Ju'  bi  lee,  among  the  Jews  every     to  their  former  owners. 


SELECTED    EXTRACTS.  145 

art  my  sun."  And  so  God  sits  effulgent  in  heaven,  not  for  a  fa- 
vored few,  but  for  the  universe  of  life  ;  and  there  is  no  creature 
so  poor  or  so  low  that  he  may  not  look  up  with  child-like  con- 
fidence and  say,  "My  Father!  Thou  art  mine." 

5.  I  think  the  human  heart  is  like  an  artist's  studio.  You 
can  tell  what  the  artist  is  doing,  not  so  much  by  his  completed 
pictures,  for  they  are  mostly  scattered  at  once,  but  by  the  half- 
finished  sketches  and  designs  which  are  hanging  on  his  wall. 
And  so  you  can  tell  the  course  of  a  man's  life,  not  so  much  by 
his  well-defined  purposes,  as  by  the  half-formed  plans — the  faint 
day-dreams,  which  are  hung  in  all  the  chambers  of  his  heart. 

G.  Men  are  like  birds  that  build  their  nests  in  trees  that  hang 
over  rivers.  And  the  birds  sing  in  the  tree-top,  and  the  river 
sings  underneath,  undermining  and  undermining,  and  in  the 
moment  when  the  bird  thinks  not,  it  comes  crashing  down,  and 
the  nest  is  scattered,  and  all  goes  floating  down  the  flood.  If 
we  build  to  ambition,  we  arc  like  men  who  build  beforo  the 
track  of  a  volcano's  eruption,  suro  to  be  overtaken  and  burnt  up 
by  its  hot  lava.  If  we  build  to  wealth,  we  are  as  those  who 
build  upon  the  ice.  The  spring  will  melt  our  foundations  from 
under  us. 

7.  Shall  we  build  to  earthly  affections  ?  If  we  can  not  trans- 
figure 2  those  whom  we  love — if  we  can  not  behold  the  eternal 
world  shining  through  the  faces  of  father  and  mother,  of  hus- 
band and  wife — if  we  can  not  behold  them  all  irradiated  with 
the  glory  of  tho  supernal 3  sphere,  it  were  not  best  to  build  for 
love.  Death  erects  his  batteries  right  over  against  our  homes, 
and  in  the  hour  when  we  think  not,  the  missile  ilies  and  explodes, 
carrying  destruction  all  around. 

8.  I  think  it  is  a  sad  sight  to  look  at  one  of  the  receiving 
hulks  at  the  Navy  Yard.  To  think  that  that  was  the  ship  which 
once  went  so  fearlessly  across  the  ocean !  It  has  come  back  to 
be  anchored  in  the  quiet  bay,  and  to  roll  this  way  and  that  with 
the  tide.  Yet  that  is  what  manv  men  set  before  them  as  tho 
end  of  life — that  the}1-  may  come  to  that  pass  where  they  may 
be  able  to  cast  out  an  anchor  this  way  and  an  anchor  that  way, 
and  never  move  again,  but  rock  lazily  with  the  tide — without  a 
sail — without  a  voyage — waiting  simply  for  decay  to  take  their 

1  Trans  fig'  ure,  change  the  out-  *  Su  per'  nal,  being  in  a  higher 
ward  form  or  appearance  of.  region  or  place;  heaveulv. 

7 


14:6  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

timbers  apart.     And  this  is  what  men  call,  "retiring  from  busi- 
ness " — to  become  simply  an  empty  old  hulk. 

9.  We  are  beleaguered  by  Time,  and  parallel  after  pai'allel  is 
drawn  around  us,  and  then  a  change  is  made,  and  we  see  the 
enemy's  flag  waving  on  some  outpost.  And  as  the  sense  of 
hearing,  and  touch,  and  sight  fails,  and  a  man  finds  all  these 
marks  of  time  upon  him,  oh  woe !  if  he  has  no  Hereafter,  as  a 
final  citadel  into  which  to  retreat. 

10.  Would  that  I  could  break  this  Gospel  as  a  bread  of  life 
to  all  of  you !  My  best  presentations  of  it  to  you  are  so  incom- 
plete !  Sometimes,  when  I  am  alone,  I  have  such  sweet  and 
rapturous  visions  of  the  love  of  God  and  the  truths  of  His  word, 
that  I  think  if  I  could  speak  to  you  then,  I  should  move  your 
hearts.  I  am  like  a  child,  who,  walking  forth  some  sunny  sum- 
mer's morning,  sees  grass  and  flowers  all  shining  with  drops  of 
dew,  that  reflect  every  hue  of  the  rainbow.  "  Oh !"  he  cries, 
"  111  carry  these  beautiful  things  to  my  mother,"  and  eagerly 
shakes  them  off  into  his  little  palm.  But  the  charm  is  gone — 
they  are  no  more  water-pearls. 

11.  There  are  days  when  my  blood  flows  like  wine  ;  when  all 
is  ease  and  prosperity  ;  when  the  sky  is  blue,  and  the  birds  sing, 
and  flowers  blossom,  and  every  thing  speaks  to  me  ;  and  my 
life  is  an  anthem,  walking  in  time  and  tune  ;  and  then  this 
world's  joy  and  affection  suffice.  But  when  a  change  comes — 
when  I  am  weary  and  disappointed — when  the  skies  lower  into 
the  somber  night — when  there  is  no  song  of  bird,  and  the  per'- 
fume  of  flowers  is  but  their  dying  breath  breathed  away — when 
all  is  sunsetting  and  autumn,  then  I  yearn  for  Him  who  sits  with 
the  summer  of  love  in  His  soul,  and  know  that  all  earthly  affec- 
tion  is  but  a  glow-worm  light  compared  to  that  which  blazes 
with  such  effulgence  in  the  heart  of  God. 

12.  I  think  that  in  the  life  to  come  my  heart  will  have  feel 
ings  like  God's.  The  little  bell  that  a  babe  can  hold  in  its  fim 
gers  may  strike  the  same  note  as  the  great  bell  of  Mos'cow.1    Its 

1  MbV  cow,  a  famous  city  of  Rus-  kol,  or  the  Monarch,  weighing  near- 

sia,  formerly  capital  of  the  whole  ly  one  hundred  and  eighty  tons,  is 

Russian  Empire.     It  is  situated  four  about  twenty -one  and  a-half  feet  in 

hundred  miles  S.  E.  of  St.  Peters-  height,  and  twenty-two  and  a-half 

burg,  with  which  it  is  connected  by  in  diameter.     A  Inure  fragment  was 

a  first-class  railroad.  The  stupendous  broken  from  it,  more  than  a  century 

bell  here  alluded  to,called  Czar  Kolo-  ago,  when  the  bell-tower  was  burned. 


FULLER'S    BIRD.  147 

note  may  be  soft  as  a  bird's  -whisper,  and  yet  it  is  the  same. 
And  so  God  may  have  a  feeling-,  and  I,  standing  by  him,  shall 
have  the  same  feeling.  Where  he  loves,  I  shall  love.  All  the 
processes  of  the  Divine  mind  will  be  reflected  in  mine.  And 
there  will  be  this  companionship  with  him  to  eternity.  What 
else  can  bo  the  meaning  of  those  expressions  that  all  we  have  is 
Christ's,  and  God  is  ours,  and  we  are  heirs  of  God  ?  To  inherit 
God — who  can  conceive  of  it  ?  It  is  the  growing  marvel,  and 
will  be  the  growing  wonder  of  eternity. 

13.  We  are  glad  that  there  is  a  bosom  of  God  to  which  we 
can  go  and  find  refuge.  As  prisoners  in  castles  look  out  of  their 
grated  windows  at  the  smiling  landscape,  where  the  sun  comes 
and  goes,  so  we  from  this  life,  as  from  dungeon  bars,  look  forth 
to  the  heavenly  land,  and  are  refreshed  with  sweet  visions  of 

the  home  that  shall  be  ours  when  we  are  free. 

Henry  Ward  Beecuer. 


SECTION    VI. 
I. 

28.     FULLER'S    BIRD.1 

THE  wild-winged  creature,  clad  in  gore 
(His  bloody  human  meal  being  o'er), 
Comes  down  to  the  water's  brink  : 
Tis  the  first  time  he  there  hath  gazed, 
And  straight  he  shrinks — alarmed — amazed, 
And  dares  not  drink. 

2.  "  Have  I  till  now,"  he  sadly  said, 

"  Preyed  on  my  brother's  blood,  and  made 

His  flesh  my  meal  to-day?" — 
Once  more  he  glances  in  the  brook, 
And  once  more  sees  his  victim's  look  ; 

Then  turns  away. 


1  Puller's  Bird,  "  I  have  read  of  a  there  by  reflection  that  he  had  killed 
bird,  which  hath  a  face  like,  and  yet  one  like  himself,  pineth  away  by  de- 
will  prey  upon,  a  man  ;  who,  coming  grees,  and  never  afterward  enjoyrth 
to  the  water  to  drink,  and  finding  itself." — Fuller's  WorViits. 


148  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

3.  With  such  sharp  pain  as  human  hearts 
May  feel,  the  drooping  thing  departs 

Unto  the  dark,  -wild  wood  ; 
And  there,  midst  briers  and  sheltering  weeds, 
He  hideth  his  remorse,  and  feeds 

No  more  on  blood. 
4  And  in  that  weedy  brake  he  lies, 
And  pines,  and  pines,  until  he  dies  ; 

And,  when  all's  6'cr, 

What  follows  ? — Naught !  his  brothers  slake 
Their  thirst  in  blood  in  that  same  brake, 

Fierce  as  before ! 

5.  So  fable  flows ! — But  would  you  find 
Its  moral  wrought  in  human  kind, 

Its  tale  made  worse  ; 
Turn  straight  to  Man,  and  in  his  fame 
And  forehead  read  "  Tlie  Harpy's"  1  name  ; 

But  no  remorse !  B.  W.  Procter. 

Brtan  Walter  Procter,  better  known  by  his  assumed  name  of  Barry  Corn- 
wall, is  a  graceful  and  accomplished  "writer,  and  a  true  poet.  "If  it  be  the 
province  of  poetry  to  give  delight,"  says  Lord  Jeffery,  "this  author  should  rank 
very  high  among  the  poets."  He  is  a  genuine  poet  of  love.  There  is  an  intense 
and  passionate  beauty,  a  depth  of  affection,  in  his  little  dramatic  poems,  which 
appear  even  in  the  affectionate  triflings  of  his  gentle  characters.  He,  is  chiefly 
noted,  however,  as  a  song-writer.  "  The  fair  blosoms  of  his  genius,  though 
light  and  trembling  as  the  breeze,  spring  from  a  wide,  and  deep,  and  robust 
stock,  which  will  sustain  far  taller  branches  without  being  exhausted." 

H. 

29.     THE    BARBARITIES    OF    WAR. 

THE  first  great  obstacle  to  the  extinction  of  war,  is  the  way 
in  which  the  heart  of  man  is  carried  oft*  from  its  barbarities 
and  its  horrors  by  the  splendor  of  its  deceitful  accompaniments. 
There  is  a  feeling  of  the  sublime  in  content 'plating  the  shock  of 
armies,  just  as  there  is  in  contenrplating  the  devouring  energy 
of  a  tempest ;  and  this  so  elevates  and  engrosses  the  whole  man, 

1  HaVpy,  in  antiquity,  the  harjrics  with  sharp  claws.     They  were  thrco 

■were  fabulous  winged  monsters,  rav-  in  number,  Aello,  Ocypetc,  and  Cele- 

enous  and  filthy,  having  the  face  of  no.    The  name  harpy  is  often  applied 

a  woman  and  the  body  of  a  vulture,  to  an  extortioner,  a  plunderer,  or 

with   their  feet  and  fingers  armed  ravenous  animals. 


THE    BARBARITIES    OF    WAR.  149 

that  his  eye  is  blind  to  the  tears  of  bereaved  parents,  and  his 
ear  is  deaf  to  the  piteous  moan  of  the  dying,  and  the  shriek  of 
their  desolated  families. 

2.  There  is  a  gracefulness  in  the  picture  of  a  youthful  warrior, 
burning  for  distinction  on  the  field,  and  lured  by  this  generous 
aspiration  to  the  deepest  of  the  animated  throng,  where,  in  the 
Lll  work  of  death,  the  opposing  sons  of  valor  struggle  for  a  re- 
membrance and  a  name  ;  and  this  side  of  the  picture  is  so  much 
the  exclusive  object  of  our  regard,  as  to  disguise  from  our  view 
the  mangled  carcases  of  the  fallen,  and  the  writhing  agonies  of 
the  hundreds  and  the  hundreds  more  who  have  been  laid  on 
the  cold  ground,  where  they  are  left  to  languish  and  to  die. 

3.  There  no  eye  pities  them.  No  sister  is  there  to  weep  over 
them.  There  no  gentle  hand  is  present  to  ease  the  dying  pos- 
ture, or  bind  up  the  wounds  which,  in  the  maddening  fury  of  the 
combat,  have  been  given  and  received  by  the  children  of  one 
common  Father.  There  death  spreads  its  pale  ensigns  over 
every  countenance,  and  when  night  comes  on,  and  darkness 
around  them,  how  many  a  despairing  wretch  must  take  up  with 
the  bloody  field  as  the  untended  bed  of  his  last  sufferings,  with- 
out one  friend  to  bear  the  message  of  tenderness  to  his  distant 
home,  without  one  companion  to  close  his  eyes ! 

4.  I  avow  it.  On  every  side  of  me  I  sec  causes  at  work  which 
go  to  spread  a  most  delusive  coloring  over  war,  and  to  remove 
its  shocking  barbarities  to  the  background  of  our  contempla'- 
tions  altogether.  I  see  it  in  the  history,  which  tells  me  of  the 
superb  appearance  of  the  troops,  and  the  brilliancy  of  their  suc- 
cessive charges.  I  see  it  in  the  poetry,  which  lends  the  magic 
of  its  numbers  to  the  narrative  of  blood,  and  transports  its  many 
admirers,  as  by  its  images,  and  its  figures,  and  its  nodding  plumes 
of  chivalry  it  throws  its  treacherous  embellishments  over  a  scene 
of  legalized  slaughter. 

5.  I  see  it  in  the  music,  which  represents  the  progress  of  the 
battle  ;  and  where,  after  being  inspired  by  the  trumpet  notes  cf 
preparation,  the  whole  beauty  and  tenderness  of  a  drawing-room 
are  seen  to  bend  over  the  sentimental  entertainment  :  nor  elo  I 
hear  the  utterance  of  a  single  sigh  to  interrupt  the  death-tones 
of  the  thickening  contest,  and  the  moans  of  the  wounded  men 
as  they  fade  away  upon  the  ear  and  sink  into  lifeless  silence. 
All,  all  goes  to  prove  what  strange  and  half-sighted  creatures  we 


150  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

are.  Were  it  not  so,  war  could  never  have  been  seen  in  any 
other  aspect  than  that  of  unmingled  hatefulness  :  and  I  can  look 
to  nothing  but  to  the  progress  of  Christian  sentiment  upon  earth 
to  arrest  the  strong  current  of  its  popular  and  prevailing  par- 
tiality for  war. 

6.  Then  only  will  an  imperious  sense  of  duty  lay  the  check  of 
severe  principle  on  all  the  subordinate  tastes  and  faculties  of  our 
nature.  Then  will  glory  be  reduced  to  its  right  estimate,  and 
the  wakeful  benevolence  of  the  Gospel,  chasing  away  every  spell, 
will  be  turned  by  the  treachery  of  no  delusion  whatever  from  its 
sublime  enterprises  for  the  good  of  the  species.  Then  the  reign 
of  truth  and  quietness  will  be  ushered  into  the  world,  and  war, 
cruel,  atrocious,  unrelenting  war,  will  be  stripped  of  its  many 
and  its  bewildering  fascinations.  Thomas  Chalmers. 

Thomas  Chalmers,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  the  celebrated  pulpit  orator  and  divine,  was 
born  on  17th  March,  1780,  at  Anstruther,  in  Fifeshire,  Scotland,  of  respectable 
and  pious,  though  humble,  parents.  He  was  entered  a  student  in  St.  Andrews 
College  at  the  early  age  of  twelve;  and  soon  gave  indications  of  that  strong 
predilection  for  the  physical  sciences  which  he  retained  through  life.  He  ob- 
tained license  to  preach  in  connection  with  the  Established  Church  of  Scotland, 
while  only  19,  on  the  express  ground  that  he  was  "a  lad  of  pregnant  parts;" 
though,  at  that  early  age,  he  considered  the  functions  of  the  sacred  office  to  be 
subordinate  to  scientilic  pursuits.  By  long  personal  illness,  and  severe  domestic 
bereavements,  he  was  brought  from  making  religion  a  secondary  concern  with 
him  to  regard  it  as  a  subject  of  paramount  importance.  In  1815  he  took  charge 
of  the  Tron  Church  and  Parish,  Glasgow,  from  which  time  his  reputation  con- 
tinued to  advance,  until  the  sensation  produced  by  his  preaching  surpassed  all 
that  was  ever  known  or  heard  of  in  the  annals  of  pulpit  eloquence.  In  1824  he 
became  professor  of  moral  philosophy  in  the  University  of  St.  Andrews ;  and  in 
1828  he  was  translated  to  the  chair  of  divinity  in  the  university  at  Edinburgh. 
Dr.  Chalmers  now  commenced  a  career  of  authorship,  by  which  he  still  further 
extended  his  reputation  as  a  divine.  The  most  ilattcring  honors  were  now 
heaped  upon  him ;  for  he  was  chosen  President  of  the  Royal  Society  of  Edin- 
burgh, created  Doctor  of  Laws  by  the  University  of  Oxford,  and  appointed  cor- 
responding member  of  the  Royal  Institute  of  France — a  compliment  which  no 
clergyman  in  Britain  had  ever  previously  enjoyed.  His  collected  works,  including 
sermons,  theological  lectures,  &c.,  amount  to  25  volumes.    Died  May  30,  1847. 

in. 

30.     BINGEN    ON    THE    RHINE. 

1. 

SOLDIER  of  the  Legion  lay  dying  in  Algiers, 


A 


There  was  lack  of  woman's  nursing,  there  was  dearth  of 
woman's  tears  ; 
Ihit  a  comrade  stood  beside  him,  while  his  life-blood  ebbed  away, 


BINGEN    ON    THE    RHINE.  151 

And  bent,  wim  pitying  glances,  to  hear  what  ho  might  say. 
The  dying  soldier  faltered,  as  he  took  that  comrade's  hand, 
And  he  said,  "  I  never  more  shall  see  my  own,  my  native  land  ; 
Take  a  message,  and  a  token,  to  some  distant  friends  of  mine, 
For  I  was  born  at  Bing'en — at  Bingen  on  the  Rhine. 

2. 

"  Tell  my  brothers  and  companions,  when  they  meet  and  crowd 

around 
To  hear  my  mournful  story  in  the  pleasant  vineyard  ground, 
That  we  fought  the  battle  bravely,  and  when  the  day  was  done, 
Full  many  a  corse  Jay  ghastly  pale,  beneath  the  setting  sun. 
And  midst  the  dead  and  dying,  were  some  grown  old  in  wars, 
The  death-wound  on  their  gallant  breasts,  the  last  of  many  scars: 
But  some  were  young — and  suddenly  beheld  life's  morn  decline  ; 
And  one  had  come  from  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

3. 

"  Tell  my  mother  that  her  other  sons  shall  comfort  her  old  age, 

And  I  was  aye  a  truant  bird,  that  thought  his  home  a  cage  : 

For  my  father  was  a  soldier,  and  even  as  a  child 

My  heart  leaped  forth  to  hear  him  tell  of  struggles  fierce  and  wild; 

And  when  he  died,  and  left  us  to  divide  his  scanty  hoard, 

I  let  them  take  whate'er  they  would,  but  kept  my  father's  sword, 

And  with  boyish  love  I  hung  it  where  the  bright  light  used  to 

shine, 
On  the  cottage-wall  at  Bingen — calm  Bingen  on  the  Rhine  ! 

o  o  o 

4. 
"  TeU  my  sister  not  to  weep  for  me,  and  sob  with  drooping  head, 
When  the  troops  are  marching  home  again,  with  glad  and  gal- 
lant tread  ; 
But  to  look  upon  them  proudly,  with  a  calm  and  steadfast  eye, 
For  her  brother  was  a  soldier  too,  and  not  afraid  to  die. 
And  if  a  comrade  seek  her  love,  I  ask  her  in  my  name 
To  listen  to  him  kindly,  without  regret  or  shame  ; 
And  to  hang  the  old  Btoord  in  its  place  (my  father's  sword  and 

mine), 
For  the  honor  of  old  Bincren — dear  Bingen  on  the  Rhine  ! 

5. 

"  There's  another — not  a  sister  ;  in  the  happy  days  gone  by, 
You'd  have  known  her  by  the  merriment  that  sparkled  in  her  eye; 


152  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Too  innocent  for  coquetry, — too  fond  for  idle  scorning, — 

Oh !  friend,  I  fear  the  lightest  heart  makes  sometimes  heaviest 

mourning ; 
Tell  her  the  last  night  of  my  life  (for  ere  the  moon  be  risen 
My  body  will  be  out  of  pain — my  soul  be  out  of  prison), 
I  dreamed  I  stood  with  her,  and  saw  tho  yellow  sunlight  shine 
On  tho  vine-clad  hills  of  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine  ! 

6. 

"  I  saw  the  blue  Rhine  sweep  along — I  heard,  or  seemed  to  hear 
The  German  songs  wo  used  to  sing,  in  chorus  sweet  and  clear  ; 
And  down  tho  pleasant  river,  and  up  the  slanting  hill, 
The  echoing  chorus  sounded,  through  the  evening  calm  and  still ; 
And  her  glad  blue  eyes  were  on  me  as  we  £>assed  with  friendly 

talk 
Down  many  a  path  beloved  of  yore,  and  w ell-remembered  walk, 
And  her  little  hand  lay  lightly,  confidingly  in  mine  : 
But  we'll  meet  no" more  at  Bingen — loved  Bingen  on  the  Rhine !" 

7. 
His  voice  grew  faint  and  hoarser, — his  grasp  was  childish  weak, — 
His  eyes  put  on  a  dying  look, — he  sighed  and  ceased  to  speak: 
His  comrade  bent  to  lift  him,  but  the  spark  of  life  had  fled, — 
The  soldier  of  the  Legion,  in  a  foreign  land — was  dead ! 
And  the  soft  moon  rose  up  slowly,  and  calmly  she  looked  down 
On  the  red  sand  of  tho  battle-field,  with  bloody  corpses  strown  ; 
Yea,  calmly  on  that  dreadful  scene  her  pale  light  seemed  to  shine, 
As  it  shone  on  distant  Bingen — fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine ! 

Mrs.  Norton. 

Mrs.  Norton,  Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah  Sheridan,  was  grand-daugter  of  Rich- 
ard Brinsley  Sheridan.  The  family  of  Sheridan  has  been  proliGc  of  genius  and 
she  has  -well  sustained  the  family  honors.  In  her  seventeenth  year,  this  lady  had 
composed  her  poem,  "The  Sorrows  of  Rosalie."  She  termed  her  next  poem, 
founded  on  the  ancient  legend  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  "  The  Undying  One." 
Her  third  volume,  entitled  "The  Dream,  and  other  Poems,"  appeared  in  1840. 
"  This  lady,"  says  a  writer  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  "  is  the  Byron  of  our  modern 
poetesses.  She  has  very  much  of  that  intense  personal  passion  by  which  Byron's 
poetry  is  distinguished  from  the  larger  grasp  and  deeper  communion  with  man 
and  naturo  of  Wordsworth.  She  has  also  Byron's  beautiful  intervals  of  tender- 
ness, his  strong  practical  thought,  and  his  forceful  expression.  It  is  not  an  arti- 
ficial imitation,  but  a  natural  parallel."  She  was  married  at  the  age  of  nineteen 
to  the  Hon.  George  Chappie  Norton,  brother  to  Lord  Grantley,  and  himself  a 
police  magistrate  in  London.  After  being  the  object  of  suspicion  and  persecu- 
tion of  the  most  painful  description,  the  union  was  dissolved  in  1S40. 


LOCHIEL'S    WARNING.  153 


IV. 

81.     LOCIIIEI/S    WARNING. 


SEER.     Locliicl,  Locliiel,  bewaro  of  the  day 
"When  tho  Lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array  I 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  red  on  my  sight, 
And  tho  clan3  of  Cullo'den '  are  scattered  in  fight ; 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown  ; 
Woe,  woe,  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms1  arc  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark !  through  tho  fast-flashing  lightning  of  war 
What  steed  to  tho  desert  flies  frantic  and  far  ? 
'Tis  thine,  O  Glenullin !  whose  bride  shall  await, 
Like  a  love-lighted  watch-fire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning — no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Albin !  to  death  and  captivity  led ! 
O  weep !  but  thy  tears  can  not  number  the  dead  ; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave — 
Culloden,  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave ! 

Lochiel.  Go  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer ! 
Or,  if  gory  Cullo'den  so  dreadful  appear, 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

Seer.  Ha !  laugh'st  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn ! 
Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth 
From  his  home  in  the  dark-rolling  clouds  of  the  north  ? 
Lo !  the  death-shot  of  focmen  out-speeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad  ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high ! 
Ah !  home  let  him  speed,  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit  ?     Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  from  tho  firmament  cast  ? 
'Tis  the  fire-shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyry  (a/ri),  that  beacons  the  darknt-ss  of  heaven. 

1  Cul  13'  den,  a  wide,  moory  ridge  army,  on  the  lGth  of  April,  1740,  by 

in  Scotland,  county  of  Inverness,  in  the  royal  troops  under  the  Duke  of 

the  parish  of  Croy,  memorable  for  Cumberland, 

the  total  defeat  of  Prince  Charles's  ■  Bosoms,  (buz'  umz). 


154  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

0  crested  Locliiel !  tlie  peerless  in  might, 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee  to  blast  and  to  burn  : 
Return '  to  thy  dwelling  ;  all  lonely  return ! 

For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood ! 

Lochiel.  False  wizard,  avaunt ! 3  I  have  marshalled  my  clan  : 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand  ;  their  bosoms  are  one. 
Thev  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock ! 
But  woo  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore3  indignantly  draws  ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanranald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array 

Seer.  Lochiel,  Lochiel,  beware  of  the  day ! 
For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 
Yet  man  can  not  cover  what  God  would  reveal  ? 
'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 
And  corainp-  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

O 

1  tell  thee,  Cullo'den's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 

With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 

Lo !  anointed  by  Heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath,4 

Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path ! 

Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my  sight : 

Rise !  rise !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! — 

'Tis  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the  moors  ; 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?     Where  ? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 

Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 

Ah !  no  ;  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  ; 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier  ; 

His  death-bell  is  tolling  :  O,  mercy,  dispel 

Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 

1  Return,  (re  tern').  sword,  formerly  used  by  the  Scottish 

5  Avaunt,  (avant').  Highlanders. 

1  C12yr  moi*e,  a  large,  tvro-handed        *  Wrath,  (rath). 


LOCHIEL'S   WARNING.  155 

Life  flutters,  convulsed,  in  his  quivering  limbs, 

And  bis  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims ! 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale 

Lochiel.  Down,  soothless  insnlter !     I  trust  not  the  talo  ! 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 

So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat ! 

Though  his  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in  their  gore, 

Like  ocean-weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 

While  the  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains, 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe ! 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 

Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 
TnoMAS  Campbell,  the  distinguished  poet,  was  born  in  Glasgow,  on  the  27th 
of  July,  1T77.  Owing  to  the  straightened  circumstances  of  his  father  young 
Campbell  was  obliged,  while  attending  college,  to  have  recourse  to  private  teach- 
ing as  a  tutor.  Notwithstanding  this  additional  labor,  he  made  rapid  progress  in 
his  studies,  and  attained  considerable  distinction  at  the  university  of  his  native 
city.  He  very  early  gave  proofs  of  his  aptitude  for  literary  composition,  especial- 
ly in  the  department  of  poetry.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  he  occasionally  labored  for 
the  booksellers,  while  attending  lectures  at  the  university  in  Edinburgh.  In  17'.»0, 
his  first  extended  poem,  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope,"  was  published.  Its  success 
was  instantaneous  and  without  parallel.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say,  that  it  is, 
without  an  exception,  the  finest  didactic  poem  in  the  English  language.  In  1809, 
he  published  "Gertrude  of  Wyoming,"  which  holds  the  second  place  among 
his  lengthier  poems,  and  to  which  were  attached  the  most  celebrated  of  his  grand 
and  powerful  lyrics.  Though  Campbell  was  too  frequently  timid,  and  noted 
more  for  beauties  of  expression  than  for  high  inventive  power  and  vigorous  ex- 
ecution, yet  his  lyrical  pieces,  particularly  "The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,"  "Mariners 
of  England,"  "Hohenlindcn,"  and  "  Lochicl's  Warning,"  which  appear  to  have 
been  struck  off  at  a  heat,  prove  conclusively  that  his  conception*,  when  not  too 
much  subjected  to  elaboration,  were  glowing,  bold,  and  powerful.  In  the  latter 
part  of  the  poet's  life  his  circumstances  were  materially  improved.  In  1S2C,  he 
was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow.  He  died  July  15th,  1S44, 
and  his  remains  were  solemnly  interred  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

V. 

32.     BATTLE    OF    WARSAW. 

O  SACRED  Truth  !  thy  triumph  ceased  awhile, 
And  Hope,  thy  sister,  ceased  with  thee  to  smile, 
When  leagued  oppression  poured  to  northern  wars 


156  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Her  whiskered  pandoors,  and  her  fierce  hussars, 
Waved  her  dread  standard  to  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Pealed  her  loud  drum,  and  twanged  her  trumpet  horn ! 
Tumultuous  horror  brooded  o'er  her  van, . 
Presa<nncf  wrath  to  Poland  and  to  man. 

o      o 

2.  "Warsaw's  last  champion  from  her  height  surveyed, 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  a  waste  of  ruin  laid  ; 

0  Heaven !  he  cried,  my  bleeding  country  save ! 
Is  there  no  hand  on  hisfh  to  shield  the  brave  ? 
Yet,  though  destruction  sweep  these  lovely  plains, 
Rise,  fellow-men  !  our  country  yet  remains ! 
By  that  dread  name,  wo  wave  the  su'Ord  on  high, 
And  swear  for  her  to  live,  with  her  to  die  ! 

3.  He  said,  and  on  the  rampart  heights  arrayed 
His  trusty  warriors — few,  but  undismayed  ; 
Firm-paced  and  slow,  a  horrid  front  they  form, 
Still  as  the  breeze,  but  dreadful  as  the  storm  ; 
Low,  murmuring  sounds  along  their  banners  fly, 
Revenge  or  death ! — the  watchword  and  reply  : 
Then  pealed  the  notes  omnipotent  to  charm, 
And  the  loud  tocsin  tulled  their  last  alarm. 

4.  In  vain,  alas !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  f ew ! 

Prom  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  i!ev,r  : 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  in  the  "book  of  time!" 
Sarmatia 1  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ! 
Pound  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pityiog  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe ! 
Dropped  from  her  nerveless  grasp  the  shattered  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye,  and  curbed  her  high  career  : 
Hope,  for  a  season,  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked  as  Kosciusko 3  fell ! 

1  Sarmatia,  (sax mi'  sli!  a),  the  clas-  and  a  third  in  1 795.     The  Poles  have 

eical   name  of  Poland.     For   many  made   several   attempts   to   recover 

centuries  Poland  existed  as  an  hide-  their  liberty,  the  last  of  which  was 

pendent  and  powerful  State,  but  hav-  in  18C0. 

ing  fallen  a  prey  to  internal  disscn-  3  Thaddeus  K6sxci  us'  ko,  a  noble 

sions,  it  was  violently  seized  by  Rus-  Pole,  was  born  in  1756.  When  young, 

sin ,  Prussia,  and  Austria,  and  divided  he  served  the  United  States  in  their 

between  them.     The  first  partition  war  of  independence  against  Eng- 

took  place  in  1772,  a  second  in  179:3,  land,  where  he  rose  to  the  rank  ef 


THE   SIEGE    OP   LEYDEX.  157 

5.  Tho  sun  went  down,  nor  ceased  tho  carnage  there, 
Tumultuous  murder  shook  the  midnight  ah' ! 
On  Prague's  proud  arch  tho  fires  of  ruin  glow, 
His  blood-dyed  waters  murmuring  far  below  ; 
The  storm  prevails,  the  rampart  yields  away. 
Bursts  the  wild  cry  of  horror  and  dismay ! 
Hark!  as  the  smouldering  piles  with  thunder  fall, 
A  thousand  shrieks  for  hopeless  mercy  call : 
Earth  shook — red  meteors  flashed  aloncr  the  sky, 
And  conscious  nature  shuddered  at  the  cry.       Campbell. 

VI. 

33.     THE    SIEGE    OF    LEYDEX. 

MEANTIME  the  besieged  city  was  at  its  last  ga^).  Tho 
burghers  had  been  in  a  state  of  uncertainty  for  many 
days  ;  being  aware  that  the  fleet  had  set  forth  for  their  relief, 
but  knowing  full  well  the  thousand  obstacles  which  it  had  to 
surmount.  They  had  guessed  its  progress  by  the  illumination 
from  the  blazing  villages  ;  they  had  heard  its  salvos '  of  artillery 
on  its  arrival  at  North  Aa  ; 2  but  since  then,  all  had  been  dark 
and  mournful  again,  hope  and  fear,  in  sickening  alternation, 
distracting  every  breast. 

2.  They  knew  that  the  wind  was  unfavorable,  and  at  the  dawn 
of  each  day  every  eye  was  turned  wistfully  to  the  vanes  of  the 
steeples.  So  long  as  the  easterly  breeze  prevailed,  they  felt, 
they  anxiously  stood  on  towers  and  housetops,  that  they  must 
look  in  vain  for  the  welcome  ocean.  Yet,  while  thus  patiently 
waiting,  they  were  literally  starving.  Bread,  malt-cake,  horse- 
flesh, had  entirely  disappeared  ;  dogs,  cats,  rats,  and  other  ver- 
min, were  esteemed  luxuries.  A  small  number  of  cows,  kept 
as  long  as  possible,  for  their  milk,  still  remained  ;  but  a  few 
were  killed  from  day  to  day,  and  distributed  in  minute  propor- 

general.    He  returned  to  Poland,  and  battle  of  Maciovice,  October  1st,  1704. 

signalized  himself  at  the  head  of  one  and  the  complete   downfall   of  his 

of  her  armies  in  1792  and  1793  ;  and  country  soon  followed.     He   closed 

when  the  Poles  rose  up  against  their  his  unstained  and  noble  life  in  Swit- 

oppresscrs  in   1794,   he  was  made  zerland  in  1817. 

their  generalissimo,  and  their  dicta-  'SaTvo,  a  general   discharge  of 

tor.     He  was   wounded   and  taken  fire-arms ;  a  volley, 

prisoner  by  the  Russians  at  the  fatal  ?  North  Aa,  (a). 


158  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

tions,  hardly  sufficient  to  support  life  among  the  famishing 
population. 

3.  Starving  "wretches  swarmed  daily  around  the  shambles 
-where  these  cattle  were  slaughtered,  contending  for  any  morsel 
which  might  fall,  and  lapping  eagerly  the  blood  as  it  ran  along 
the  pavement ;  while  the  hides,  chopped  and  boiled,  were 
greedily  devoured.  Women  and  children,  all  day  long,  were  seen 
searching  gutters  and  dunghills  for  morsels  of  food,  which  they 
disputed  fiercely  with  the  famishing  dogs.  The  green  leaves  were 
stripped  from  the  trees,  every  living  herb  was  converted  into 
human  food  ;  but  these  expedients  could  not  avert  starvation. 

4.  The  daily  mortality  was  frightful  :  infants  starved  to  death 
on  the  maternal  breasts  which  famine  had  parched  and  with- 
ered ;  mothers  dropped  dead  in  the  streets,  with  their  dead 
children  in  their  arms.  In  many  a  house  the  watchmen,  in 
their  rounds,  found  a  whole  family  of  corpses, — father,  mother, 
children,  side  by  side  ;  for  a  disorder  called  the  plague,  natur- 
ally engendered  of  hardship  and  famine,  now  came,  as  if  in 
kindness,  to  abridge  the  agony  of  the  people.  The  pestilence 
stalked  at  noonday  through  the  city,  and  the  doomed  inhabit- 
ant s  fell  like  grass  beneath  the  scythe.  From  six  thousand  to 
eight  thousand  human  beings  sank  before  this  scourge  alone  ; 
yet  the  people  resolutely  held  out, — women  and  men  mutually 
encouraging  each  other  to  resist  the  entrance  of  their  foreign 
foe, — an  evil  more  horrible  than  pest  or  famine. 

5.  Ley  den  wras  sublime  in  its  despair.  A  few  murmurs  were, 
however,  occasionally  heard  at  the  steadfastness  of  the  magis- 
trates, and  a  dead  body  was  placed  at  the  door  of  the  burgo- 
master, as  a  silent  witness  against  his  inflexibility,  A  party  of 
the  more  faint-hearted  even  assailed  the  heroic  Adrian  Yan  der 
Werf  with  threats  and  reproaches  as  he  passed  through  the 
streets.    A  crowd  had  gathered  around  him  as  he  reached  a  tri- 

o 

angular  place  in  the  center  of  the  town,  into  which  many  of  the 
principal  streets  emptied  themselves,  and  upon  one  side  of  which 
stood  the  church  of  Saint  Pancras.  There  stood  the  burgo- 
master, a  tall,  haggard,  imposing  figure,  with  dark  visage  and  a 
tranquil  but  commanding  eye.  He  waved  his  broad-leaved  felt 
hat  for  silence,  and  then  exclaimed,  in  language  which  has  been 
almost  literally  preserved : 

C.  "  What  v>rould  ye,  my  friends  ?   Why  do  ye  murmur  that 


THE    SIEGE    OF    LEYDEN.  159 

3  do  not  break  our  vows  and  surrender  the  city  to  the  Span- 
irds  ? — a  fate  more  horrible  than  the  agony  which  she  now  en- 
rres.  I  tell  you  I  have  made  an  oath  to  hold  the  city  ;  and 
.  .ay  God  give  me  strength  to  keep  my  oath !  I  can  die  but  once, 
whether  by  your  hands,  the  enemy's,  or  by  the  hand  of  God.  My 
own  fate  is  indifferent  to  mc  ;  not  so  that  of  the  city  intrusted 
to  my  care.  I  know  that  we  shall  starve  if  not  soon  relieved  ; 
but  starvation  is  preferablo  to  the  dishonored  death  which  is 
the  only  alternative.  Your  menaces  move  me  not ;  my  life  is  at 
your  disposal ;  here  is  my  sword,  plunge  it  into  my  breast,  and 
divide  my  flesh  among  you.  Take  my  body  to  appease  your  hun- 
ger, but  expect  no  surrender  so  long  as  I  remain  alive." 

7.  Ou  the  28th  of  September,  a  dove  flew  into  the  city,  bring- 
ing a  letter  from  Admiral  Boisot.  In  this  despatch,  the  position 
of  the  fleet  at  North  Aa  was  described  in  encouraging  terms, 
and  the  inhabitants  were  assured  that,  in  a  very  few  days  at 
farthest,  the  long-expected  relief  would  enter  their  gates.  The 
tempest  came  to  their  relief.  A  violent  equinoctial  gale,  on  the 
night  of  the  1st  and  2d  of  October,  came  storming  from  the 
northwest,  shifting  after  a  few  hours  full  eight  points,  and  then 
blowing  still  more  violently  from  the  southwest.  The  waters  of 
the  North  Sea  were  piled  in  vast  masses  upon  the  southern  coast 
of  Holland,  and  then  dashed  furiously  landward,  the  ocean  ris- 
ing over  the  earth  and  sweeping  with  unrestrained  power  across 
the  rained  dykes. 

8.  In  the  course  of  twenty-four  hours,  the  fleet  at  North  Aa, 

instead  of  nine  inches,  had  more  than  two  feet  of  water.     On 

it  went,  sweeping  over  the  broad  waters  which  lay  between  Zoe- 

terwoude  and  Zwieten  ;  and  as  they  approached  some  shallows 

which  led  into  the  great  mere,  the  Zealandera  dashed  into  the 

sea,  and  with  sheer  strength  shouldered  every  vessel  through. 

On  again  the  fleet  of  Boisot  still  went,  and,  overcoming  everv 

obstacle,  entered  the  city  on  the  morning  of  the  3d  of  October. 

Leyden  was  relieved.  Motley. 

John  Latiikop  Motley,  the  distinguished  historian,  was  born  in  Dorchester, 
Massachusetts,  in  1814,  and  was  graduated  at  Harvard  College  in  ISol.  Soon 
after,  he  spent  several  years  in  Germany,  studying  in  its  universities.  In  1S41, 
he  was  appointed  Secretary  of  Legation  to  Russia,  which  post  he  resigned  in 
less  than  two  years,  having  written  in  the  meantime  for  the  N.  A.  Review  a  lead- 
ing article  on  Peter  the.  Great.  He  has  written  numerous  papers  for  leading 
periodicals, — two  anonymous  novels,  Morton's  Hope,  and  Merrymount, — "  The 
Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,"  in  1850, —  and  quite  recently,  the  "United  Neth- 
erlands." 


&~ 


160  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 

VII. 

34.     THE    HAPPY    WARRIOR 

WHO  is  the  happy  warrior  ?     "Who  is  he 
That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be  ? 
It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 
Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought  : — 
"Whose  high  endeavors  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright ; 
"Who,  with  a  natural  instinct  to  discern 
"What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn  ; 
Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 
But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care  : — 

2.  "Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 
And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed  (miserable  train!) 
Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a  power 
"Which  is  our  human  nature's  highest  dower  ; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives  : — 
By  objects  which  might  force  the  soul  to  abato 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate  ; 
Is  placable, — because  occasions  rise 
So  of/en  that  demand  such  sacrifice  ; 
More  skillful  in  self-knowledge,  e'en  more  pure, 
As  tempted  more  ;  more  able  to  endure, 
As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress, 
Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

3.  'T  is  ho  whose  law  is  reason  ;  who  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends  ; 
"Whence,  in  a  state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a  guard  against  worse  ill, — 

(And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a  right  foundation  rest,) 
He  Axes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  ho  knows  : — 

4.  Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command, 
Rises  by  open  means  ;  and  there  will  stand 


THE    HAPPY    WARRIOR,  1(31 

On  honorable  terms,  or  else  retire, 
And  in  himself  possess  his  own  desire  : — 
"Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Kcep3  faithful  with  a  singleness  of  aim  ; 
And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honors,  or  for  worldly  state  ; — 
"Whom  they  must  follow  ;  on  whose  head  must  fall, 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all : — 

5,  "Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife, 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 
A  constant  influence,  a  peculiar  grace  ; 
I3ut  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 
Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 
Great  issues,  good  or  bad,  for  human  kind, 
Is  happy  a3  a  lover  ;  and  attired 
"With  sudden  brightness,  like  a  man  inspired  ; 
And  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 
Or,  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed, 
Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need  : — 

G.  He  who,  though  thus  endued  as  with  a  sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence, 
Is  yet  a  soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homcfclt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes  ; 
Sweet  images!  which,  whereso'er  he  be, 
Are  at  his  heart ;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  aj^prove  ; 
More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love  : — 

7.  'T  is  finally  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high, 
Conspicuous  object  in  a  Nation's  eye, 
Or  left  un thought  of  in  obscurity, — 
And  with  a  toward  or  untoward  lot, 
Prosperous  or  adverse  to  his  wish  or  not, — 
Plays  in  the  many  games  of  life  that  one 
"Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won ! 
"Whoin  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay, 
Tsor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 
Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast, 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 
From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpassed  : — 


162  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

8.  Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earth, 
Forever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth, 
Or  he  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame, 
And  leave  a  dead,  unprofitable  name, — 
Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause  ; 
And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven's  applause ! 
This  is  the  happy  WARRIOR  ;  this  is  he 
Whom  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 

Wordsworth. 
William  Wordsworth,  the  greatest  of  metaphysical  poets,  and  one  of  the 
purest  and  most  blameless  of  men,  was  born  at  Cockerinouth,  Cumberland  coun- 
ty, England,  April  7th,  1770.  He  read  much  in  boyhood,  and  wrote  some  verses, 
lie  received  his  early  education  at  the  endowed  school  of  Hawkshead ;  entered 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  in  1787,  and  though  he  disliked  the  system  of  the 
university,  and  attended  little  to  the  studies  of  the  place,  graduated  with  his 
degree  of  B.  A.  in  1791.  In  the  close  of  the  same  year  he  went  to  France,  where 
he" passed  nearly  a  year;  and  there  he  wrote  the  poem  called  "Descriptive 
Sketches,"  which,  with  "  The  Evening  Walk,"  was  published  in  1793.  In  1795 
he  received  a  legacy  of  £900  from  his  friend,  Raisley  Calvert,  and  at  the  close  of 
the  same  began  to  live  with  his  sister,  their  first  residence  being  at  Racedown, 
Dorsetshire.  He  here  made  the  acquaintance  of  Coleridge,  and  wrote  many  of 
the  fine  passages  that  afterward  appeared  in  "  The  Excursion."  In  the  autumn 
of  179S  he  published  the  first  edition  of  his  "Lyrical  Ballads,"  and  then  went  to 
Germany  with  his  sister  and  Coleridge ;  and,  the  party  separating,  Miss  Words- 
worth and  her  brother  passed  the  winter  at  Goslar,  in  Hanover.  Here  were 
written  "Lucy  Gray,"  and  several  beautiful  pieces.  His  long  residence  among 
the  lakes  of  his  native  district  began  immediately  after  his  return  to  England. 
His  second  volume  of  "  Lyrical  Ballads  "  appeared  at  the  close  of  1800.  In  1802  he 
married  Mary  Hutchinson,  of  Penrith,  to  whose  amiability  his  poems  pay  warm 
and  beautiful  tributes.  In  the  spring  of  1313,  after  various  changes  of  residence, 
he  took  up  his  abode  at  Rydal  Mount,  two  miles  from  Grasmcre,  which  was  his 
home  for  thirty-seven  years,  and  the  scene  of  his  death.  There,  too,  he  was  ap- 
pointed distributor  of  stamps  for  Westmoreland  ;  an  office  which  was  executed 
by  a  clerk,  and  yielded  about  £500  a  year.  In  the  summer  of  1814  was  published 
"  The  Excursion,"  a  poem  which,  if  judged  by  its  best  passages,  has  hardly  an 
equal  in  our  language.  The  following  year  appeared  "The  White  Doe  of  Ryl- 
stonc."  From  his  fiftieth  to  his  eightieth  year  the  poet  traveled  much,  suffered  a 
great  deal,  and  wrote  but  little.  In  1842  he  resigned  his  distributorship  in  favor 
of  one  of  his  two  sons,  and  received  from  Sir  Robert  Peel,  a  pension  of  £300  a 
year.    In  1843  he  was  appointed  poet-laureate.    He  died  on  the  23d  of  April,  1850. 

vm. 

35.     THE    CONQUEROR'S    GRAVE. 

"TXT^ITHIN  this  lowly  grave  a  conqueror  lies  ; 
VV        And  yet  the  monument  proclaims  it  not, 
Nor  round  the  sleeper's  name  hath  chisel  wrought 


THE    CONQUEROR'S    GRAVE.  1C3 

The  emblems  of  a  fame  that  never  dies — 
Ivy  and  amaranth  in  a  graceful  sheaf 
Twined  wifh  the  laurel's  fair,  imperial  leaf. 

A  simple  name  alone, 

To  the  great  world  unknown, 
Is  graven  here,  and  wild  flowers  rising  round, 
Meek  meadow-sweet  and  violets  of  the  ground, 
Lean  lovingly  against  the  humble  stone. 

2.  Here,  in  the  quiet  earth,  they  laid  apart 

No  man  of  iron  mold  and  bloody  hands, 

Who  sought  to  wreak  upon  the  cowering  lands 
The  passions  that  consumed  his  restless  heart ; 

But  one  of  tender  spirit  and  delicate  frame, 
Gentlest  in  mien  and  mind 
Of  gentle  womankind, 

Timidly  shrinking  from  the  breath  of  blame  ; 
One  in  whose  eyes  the  smile  of  kindness  made 

Its  haunt,  like  flowers  by  sunny  brooks  in  May ; 
Yet  at  the  thought  of  others'  pain,  a  shade 

Of  sweeter  sadness  chased  the  smile  away. 

3.  Nor  deem  that  when  the  hand  that  moldcrs  here 
Was  raised  in  menace,  realms  were  chilled  with  fear, 

And  armies  mustered  at  the  sign,  as  when 
Clouds  rise  on  clouds  before  the  rainy  east, — 

Gray  captains  leading  bands  of  veteran  men 
And  fiery  youths  to  be  the  vultures'  feast. 
Not  thus  were  waged  the  mighty  wars  that  gave 
The  victory  to  her  who  fills  this  grave  ; 
Alone  her  task  was  wrought  ; 
Alone  the  battle  fought ; 
Through  that  long  strife  her  constant  hope  was  staid 
On  God  alone,  nor  looked  for  other  aid. 

4.  She  met  the  hosts  of  sorrow  with  a  look 

That  altered  not  beneath  the  frown  they  wore  ; 
And  soon  the  lowering  brood  were  tamed,  and  took 

Meekly  her  gentle  rule,  and  frowned  no  more. 
Her  soft  hand  put  aside  the  assaults  of  wrath, 
And  calmly  broke  in  twain 
The  fiery  shafts  of  pain, 


164  "NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

And  rent  the  nets  of  passion  from  her  path. 
By  that  victorious  hand  despair  was  slain  : 
"With  love  she  vanquished  hate,  and  overcame 
'Evil  with  good  in  her  great  Master's  name. 

5.  Her  glory  is  not  of  this  shadowy  state, 

Glory  that  with  the  fleeting  season  dies  ; 
But  when  she  entered  at  the  sapphire  gate, 

"What  joy  was  radiant  in  celestial  eyes ! 
How  heaven's  bright  depths  with  sounding  welcomes  rung, 
And  flowers  of  heaven  by  shining  hands  were  flung ! 
And  He  who,  long  before, 
Pain,  scorn,  and  sorrow  bore, 
The  mighty  Sufferer,  with  aspect  sweet, 
Smiled  on  the  timid  stranger  from  His  seat — 
He  who,  returning  glorious  from  the  grave, 
Dragged  death,  disarmed,  in  chains,  a  crouching  slave. 

6.  See,  as  I  linger  here,  the  sun  grows  low  ; 

Cool  airs  are  murmuring  that  the  night  is  near. 
O  gentle  sleeper,  from  thy  grave  I  go 

Consoled,  though  sad,  in  hope,  and  yet  in  fear. 
Biief  is  the  time,  I  know, 
The  warfare  scarce  begun  ; 
Yet  all  may  win  the  triumphs  thou  hast  won  ; 
Still  flows  the  fount  whose  waters  strengthened  thee. 

The  victors'  names  are  yet  too  few  to  fill 
Heaven's  mighty  roll ;  the  glorious  armory 
That  ministered  to  thee  is  open  still. 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


SECTION    VII. 
I 

8G.     DESTINY    OF    AMERICA. 

THE  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 
Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time 
Producing  subjects  worthy  fame  : 


CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS.  105 

2.  la  happy  climes,  -where,  from  the  genial  sun 

And  virgin  earth,  such  scenes  ensue  ; 
The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true  : 

3.  In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence, 

Where  nature  guides,  and  virtue  rules  ; 
Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools  : 

4.  There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts  ; 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage, 
The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

5.  Not  such  a3  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay  : 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 
By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

6.  Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way  : 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 

A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last.  Berkeley. 

George  Berkeley,  Bishop  of  Cloyne,  waa  born  at  Thomastown,  County  ot 
Kilkenny,  Ireland,  in  1GS4,  and  died  at  Oxford,  England,  in  1753.  He  waa  the 
author  of  several  works,  principally  on  metaphysical  science.  He  visited  Amer- 
ica in  1728  for  the  purpose  of  founding  a  college  for  the  conversion  of  the  In- 
dians; but  failing  to  obtain  the  promised  funds  from  the  government,  after 
remaining  seven  years  in  Rhode  Island,  he  returned  to  Europe.  While  inspired 
with  his  transatlantic  mission,  he  penned  the  above  fine  moral  verses,  so  truly 
prophetic  of  the  progress  of  the  United  States. 

n. 

37.     CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS. 


H 


E  was  decidedly  a  visionary,1  but  a  visionary  of  an  un- 
common and  successful  kind.  The  manner  in  which  his 
ardent  imagination  and  mercurial  nature  were  controlled  by  a 
powerful  judgment,  and  directed  by  an  acute  sagacity,  is  the 
most  extraordinary3  feature3  in  his  character.     Thus  governed, 

1  Visionary,  (viz'  un  a  ri),  one  who  3  Extraordinary,   (eks  trir'  c!  na- 

13  confident  of  success  in  a  project  t\\  beyond  or  out  of  the  common 

which  others  perceive  or  think  to  be  method  or  order ;  remarkable. 

idle  and  fanciful  ;  a  dreamer.  3  Feature,  (let'  y3r). 


166  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

his  imagination,  instead  of  wasting  itself  in  idle  soarings,  lent 
wings  to  his  judgment,  and  bore  it  away  to  conclusions  at  which 
common  minds  could  never  have  arrived  ;  nay,  which  they  could 
not  perceive  when  pointed  out. 

2.  To  his  intellectual  vision  it  was  given  to  read,  in  the  signs 
of  the  times  and  the  reveries  of  past  ages,  the  indications  of  an 
unknown  world,  as  soothsayers  were  said  to  read  predictions  in 
the  stars,  and  to  foretell  events  from  the  visions  of  the  night. 
"  His  soul,"  observes  a  Spanish  writer,  "  was  superior  to  the  age 
in  which  he  lived.  For  him  was  reserved  the  great  enterprise 
to  plow  the  sea  which  had  given  rise  to  so  many  fables,  and  to 
decipher  the  mystery  of  his  time." 

3.  With  all  the  visionary  fervor  of  his  imagination,  its  fondest 
dreams  fell  short  of  the  reality.  He  died  in  ignorance  ol  the 
real  grandeur  of  his  discovery.  Until  his  last  breath,  he  enter- 
tained the  idea  that  he  had  merely  opened  a  new  way  to  the  old 
resorts  of  opulent  commerce,  and  had  discovered  some  of  the 
wild  regions  of  the  East.  He  supposed  Hispaniola  to  be  the 
ancient  Ophir  which  had  been  visited  by  the  ships  of  Solomon, 
and  that  Cuba  and  Terra  Firma  were  but  remote  parts  of  Asia. 

4.  What  visions  of  glory  would  have  broke  upon  his  mind, 
could  he  have  known  that  he  had  indeed  discovered  a  new  con- 
tinent, equal  tc  the  whole  of  the  old  world  in  magnitude,  and 
separated,  by  two  vast  oceans,  from  all  the  earth  hitherto  known 
by  civilized  man  !  And  how  would  his  magnanimous  spirit  have 
been  consoled,  amid  the  chills  of  age  and  cares  of  penury,  the 
neglect  of  a  fickle  public  and  the  injustice  ot  an  ungrateful 
king,  could  he  have  anticipated  the  splendid  empires  which  were 
to  spread  over  the  beautiful  world  he  had  discovered,  and  the 
nations  and  tongues  and  languages  which  were  to  fill  its  lands 
with  his  renown,  and  to  revere  and  bless  his  name  to  the  latest 
posterity'  Washington  Irving 

in. 

38.     RETURN    OF    COLUMBUS. 

IN  the  spring  of  1493,  while  the  court  was  still  at  Barcelona, 
letters  were  received  from  Christopher  Columbus,  announ- 
cing his  return  to  Spain,  and  the  successful  achievement  of  his 
great  enterprise,  by  the  discovery  of  land  beyond  the  western 


RETURN    OF    COLUMBUS.  107 

ocean.  The  delight  and  astonishment,  raised  by  this  intelligence, 
were  proportioned  to  the  skepticism  with  which  his  project  had 
been  originally  viewed.  The  sovereigns  (suv'ermz)  were  now 
filled  with  a  natural  impatience  to  ascertain  the  extent  and  other 
particulars  of  the  important  discovery  :  and  they  transmitted 
instant  instructions  to  the  admiral  to  repair  to  Barcelona,  as 
soon  as  he  should  have  made  the  preliminary  arrangements  for 
the  further  prosecution  of  his  enterprise. 

2.  The  great  navigator  had  succeeded,  as  is  well  known,  after 
a  voyage,  the  natural  difficulties  of  which  had  been  much  aug- 
mented by  the  distrust  and  mutinous  spirit  of  his  followers,  in 
descrying  land  on  Friday,  the  12th  of  October,  1492.  After 
some  months  spent  in  exploring  the  delightful  regions,  now  for 
the  first  time  thrown  open  to  the  eyes  of  a  Europe 'an,  he  em- 
barked in  the  month  of  January,  1493,  for  Spain.  One  of  his 
yessels  had  previously  foundered,  and  another  had  deserted  him, 
so  that  he  was  left  alone  to  retrace  his  course  across  the  Atlantic. 

3.  After  a  most  tempestuous  voyage,  he  was  compelled  to  take 
shelter  in  the  Tagus,  sorely  against  his  inclination.  He  expe- 
rienced, however,  the  most  honorable  reception  from  the  Portu- 
guese monarch,  John  the  Second,  who  did  ample  justice  to  the 
great  qualities  of  Columbus,  although  he  had  failed  to  profit  by 
them.  After  a  brief  delay,  the  admiral  resumed  his  voyage,  and 
crossing  the  bar  of  Saltes,  entered  the  harbor  of  Palos  about 
noon,  on  the  loth  of  March,  1493,  being  exactly  seven  months 
and  eleven  days  since  his  departure  from  that  port. 

4.  Great  was  the  agitation  in  the  little  community  at  Palos, 
as  they  beheld  the  well-known  vessel  of  the  admiral  reentering 
their  harbor.  Their  desponding  imaginations  had  long  since 
consigned  him  to  a  watery  grave  ;  for,  in  addition  to  the  preter- 
natural horrors  which  hung  over  the  voyage,  they  had  experienced 
the  most  stormy  and  disastrous  winter  within  the  recollection 
of  the  oldest  mariners.  Most  of  them  had  relatives  or  friends 
on  board.  They  thronged  immediately  to  the  shore,  to  assure 
themselves  with  their  own  eves  of  the  truth  of  their  return. 

5.  "When  they  beheld  their  faces  once  more,  and  saw  them 
accompanied  by  the  numerous  evielences  which  they  brought 
back  of  the  success  of  the  expedition,  they  burst  forth  in  accla- 
mations of  joy  and  gratulation.  They  awaited  the  landing  of 
Columbus,  when  the  whole  population  of  the  place  accompanied 


168  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

him  and  his  crew  to  tho  principal  church,  where  solemn  thanks- 
givings were  offered  up  for  their  return  ;  while  every  bell  in  the 
village  sent  forth  a  joyous  peal  in  honor  of  the  glorious  event. 

6.  The  admiral  was  too  desirous  of  presenting  himself  before 
the  sovereigns,  to  protract  his  stay  long  at  Palos.  He  took  with 
him  on  his  journey  specimens  of  the  multifarious  products  of  the 
newly-discovered  regions.  He  was  accompanied  by  several  of 
the  native  islanders,  arrayed  in  their  simple  barbaric  costume', 
and  decorated,  as  he  passed  through  tho  principal  cities,  with 
collars,  bracelets,  and  other  ornaments  of  gold,  rudely  fashioned  : 
he  exhibited,  also,  considerable  quantities  of  the  same  metal  in 
dust,  or  in  crude  masses,  numerous  vegetable  exotics,1  possessed 
of  aromatic2  or  medicinal  virtue,  and  several  kinds  of  quad- 
rupeds unknown  in  Europe,  and  birds,  whose  varieties  of  gaudy 
plumage  gave  a  brilliant  effect  to  the  pageant. 

7.  The  admiral's  progress  through  the  country  was  everywhere 
impeded  by  the  multitudes  thronging  forth  to  gaze  at  the  ex- 
traordinary spectacle,  and  the  more  extraordinary  man,  who,  in 
the  emphatic  language  of  that  time,  which  has  now  lost  its  force 
from  its  familiarity,  first  revealed  the  existence  of  a  "New  World." 
As  he  passed  through  the  busy,  populous  city  of  SeVille,  every 
window,  bal'cony,  and  housetop,  which  could  afford  a  glimpse 
of  him,  is  described  to  have  been  crowded  with  spectators. 

8.  It  was  the  middle  of  April  before  Columbus  reached  Bar- 
celona. The  nobility  and  cavaliers  in  attendance  on  the  court, 
together  with  the  authorities  of  the  city,  came  to  the  gates  to 
receive  him,  and  escorted  him  to  the  royal  presence.  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella  were  seated,  with  their  son,  Prince  John,  under  a 
superb  canopy  of  state,  awaiting  his  arrival.  On  his  approach, 
they  rose  from  their  seats,  and  extending  their  hands  to  him  to 
salute,  caused  him  to  be  seated  before  them. 

9.  These  were  unprecedented  marks  of  condescension  to  a  per- 
son of  Columbus's  rank,  in  the  haughty  and  ceremonious  court 
of  Castile  (kas  teT).  It  was,  indeed,  the  proudest  moment  in  the 
life  of  Columbus.  He  had  fully  established  the  truth  of  his 
long-contested  theory,  in  the  face  of  argument,  sophistry,  sneer, 
skepticism,  and  contempt.  He  had  achieved  this,  not  by  chance, 
but  by  calculation,  supported  through  the  most  adverse  circuru- 

1  Exotic,  ( egz  6t'  ik )  a  foreign  "  Arv  o  mXt'  ic,  spicy  ;  fragrant ; 
plant  or  production.  odoriferous  ;  etrong-pcented. 


RETURN    OF    COLUMBUS.  KJ9 

etanco3  by  consum'mate  conduct.  The  honors  paid  him,  which 
had  hitherto  been  reserved  only  for  rank,  or  fortune,  or  military 
success,  purchased  by  the  blood  and  tears  of  thousands,  were, 
in  his  case,  a  homage  to  intellectual  power,  successfully  exerted 
in  behalf  of  the  noblest  interests  of  humanity. 

10.  After  a  brief  interval,  tho  sovereigns  requested  from 
Columbus  a  recital  of  his  adventures.  His  manner  was  sedate 
and  dignified,  but  warmed  by  the  glow  of  natural  enthusiasm. 
He  enumerated  tho  several  islands  which  he  had  visited,  expa- 
tiated on  the  temperate  character  of  the  climate,  and  the  capacity 
of  the  soil  for  every  variety  of  agricultural  production,  appeal- 
ing to  the  samples  imported  by  him,  as  evidence  of  their  natural 
fruitfulncss.  He  dwelt  more  at  large  on  the  precious  metals  to 
be  found  in  these  islands,  which  he  inferred,  less  from  the  speci- 
mens actually  obtained,  than  from  the  uniform  testimony  of  the 
natives  to  their  abundance  in  the  unexplored  regions  of  the  in- 
terior. Lastly,  he  pointed  out  the  wide  scope  afforded  to  Chris- 
tian zeal,  in  the  illumination  of  a  race  of  men,  whose  minds, 
far  from  being  wedded  to  any  system  of  idolatry,  were  prepared, 
by  their  extreme  simplicity,  for  the  reception  of  pure  and  uncor- 
rupted  doctrine. 

11.  The  last  consideration  touched  Isabella's  heart  most  sensi- 
bly ;  and  the  whole  audience,  kindled  with  various  emotions  by 
the  speaker's  eloquence,  filled  up  the  perspective  with  tho  gor- 
geous coloring  of  their  own  fancies,  as  ambition,  or  avarice,  or 
devotional  feeling  predominated  in  their  bosoms.  When  Colum- 
bus ceased,  the  king  and  queen,  together  wTith  all  present,  pros- 
trated themselves  on  their  knees  in  grateful  thanksgivings,  while 
the  solemn  strains  of  the  To  Deum '  were  poured  forth  by  the 
choir  of  tho  royal  chapel,  as  in  commemoration  of  some  glorious 
victory.  William  II.  Prbscott. 

"William  IT.  Pkescott,  the  eminent  historian,  was  horn  in  Balem,  Massachu 
setts,  on  the  4th  of  May,  17%.  His  father,  William  Prescott,  LL.D.,  a  distin 
guished  lawyer  and  judge,  noted  for  intellectual  and  moral  worth,  died  in  the 
last  mouth  of  1844,  at  the  advanced  age  of  84.  His  grandfather  was  the  cele- 
brated Colonel  William  Prescott,  who  commanded  the  American  forces  at  Bun- 
ker Hill  on  the  memorable  17th  of  June,  1775.  But  Mr.  Frcscott  needs  none  of 
the  pride  of  ancestry  to  stamp  him  as  one  of  nature's  noblemen.  An  untoward 
accident  in  college,  by  which  he  lost  the  sight  of  one  eye,  and  the  sympathy 
subsequently  excited  in  the  other,  rendered  him  almost  totally  blind;  but,  not- 

1  Te  Deum,  (te  de'  urn),  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving,  so  called  from  the  first 
Words,  "  Te  Deum  laudar.ms"  Thee,  God,  we  praise. 

8 


170  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

■withstanding,  his  indefatigable  industry,  united  with  fine  taste  and  a  well-stored 
mind,  elevated  him  to  the  highest  rank  in  that  diliieult  department,  historical 
composition.  Indeed,  it  is  the  concurrent  judgment  of  the  best  European  crit- 
ics that  he  had  no  superior,  if  he  had  an  equal,  among  contemporary  historians. 
His  first  work,  "  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  was  published  in  the  beginning  of  1838, 
and  was  soon  republished  in  nearly  all  the  great  cities  of  Europe.  That,  with 
his  second  work,  "  The  Conquest  of  Mexico,"  are  not  only  among  the  finest 
models  of  historical  composition,  but  in  a  very  genuine  sense  they  are  national 
works.  The  choicest  words  of  panegyric  can  not  do  injustice  to  the  exquisite 
44  beauty  of  Mr.  Prescott's  descriptions,  the  just  proportion  and  dramatic  interest 
of  his  narrative,  his  skill  as  a  character  writer,  the  expansiveness  and  complete- 
ness of  his  views,  and  that  careful  and  intelligent  research  which  enabled  him  to 
make  his  works  as  valuable  for  their  accuracy  as  they  are  attractive  by  all  the 
graces  of  style."  In  private  life  Mr.  Prescott  was  as  much  admired  for  his 
amiability,  simplicity,  and  highbred  courtesy  as  for  his  remarkable  abilities  and 
acquirements.    He  died  January  28th,  1859. 

IV. 

39.     THE    REVOLUTIONARY    ALARM. 

DARKNESS  closed  upon  the  country  and  upon  the  town, 
but  it  was  no  night  for  sleep.  Heralds  on  swift  relays  of 
horses  transmitted  the  war-message  from  hand  to  hand,  till 
village  repeated  it  to  village  ;  the  sea  to  the  backwoods  ;  the 
plains  to  the  highlands  ;  and  it  was  never  suffered  to  droop, 
till  it  had  been  borne  North,  and  South,  and  East,  and  West, 
throughout  the  land. 

2.  It  spread  over  the  bays  that  receive  the  Saco1  and  the 
Penobscot.  Its  loud  reveille8  broke  the  rest  of  the  trappers  of 
New  Hampshire,  and  ringing  like  bugle-notes  from  peak  to 
peak,  overleap  t  the  Green  Mountains,  swept  onward  to  Mon- 
treal, and  descended  the  ocean  river,  till  the  responses  were 
echoed  from  the  cliffs  of  Quebec.  The  hills  along  the  Hudson 
told  to  one  another  the  tale. 

3.  As  the  summons  hurried  to  the  South,  it  was  one  day  at 
New  York  ;  in  one  more  at  Philadelphia  ;  the  next  it  lighted  a 
watchfire  at  Baltimore  ;  thence  it  waked  an  answer  at  Annap- 
olis. Crossing  the  Potomac  near  Mount  Vernon,  it  was  sent 
forward  without  a  halt  to  Williamsburg.  It  traversed  the  Dis- 
mal Swamp 3  to  Nansemond,  along  the  route 4  of  the  first  emi- 

1  Saco,  (sa'  ko).  to  rise,  and  for  the  sentinels  to  stop 

5  Reveille,  (re  val'  yi),  the  beat  of  challenging. 

drum  about  break  of  day,  to  give  9  Swamp,  (swoinp). 

notice  that  it  is  time  for  the  soldiers  *  Route,  (rot). 


THE    REVOLUTIONARY    ALARM.  171 

grants  to  North  Carolina.  It  moved  onwards  and  still  onwards 
through  boundless  groves  of  evergreen  to  Newbern  and  to 
Wilmington. 

4.  "  For  God's  sake,  forward  it  by  night  and  by  day,"  wrote 
Cornelius  Harnett,  by  the  express  which  sped  for  Brunswick. 
Patriots  of  South  Carolina  caught  up  its  tones  at  the  border 
and  despatched  it  to  Charleston,  and  through  pines  and  palmet- 
tos and  moss-clad  live  oaks,  further  to  the  South,  till  it  re- 
sounded among  the  New  England  settlements  beyond  the 
Savannah. 

5.  The  Blue  Ridge  took  up  the  voice  and  made  it  heard  from 
one  end  to  the  other  of  tho  valley  of  Virginia.  The  Allegha- 
nies,  as  they  listened,  opened  their  barriers  that  the  "  loud  call" 
might  pass  through  to  the  hardy  riflemen  on  the  Holston,  the 
Watauga  and  the  French  Broad.  Ever  renewing  its  strength, 
powerful  enough  even  to  create  a  commonwealth,  it  breathed 
its  inspiring  word  to  the  first  settlers  of  Kentucky  ;  so  that 
hunters  who  made  their  halt  in  the  matchless  valley  of  the  Elk- 
horn,  commemorated  the  19th  day  of  April,  177(3,  by  naming 
their  encampment  Lexington. 

6.  With  one  impulse  the  colonies  sprung  to  arms  ;  with  one 
spirit  they  pledged  themselves  to  each  other  "  to  be  ready  for 
the  extreme  event."  With  one  heart  the  continent  cried,  "  Lib- 
erty or  Death."  Bancroft. 

George  Banckoft,  the  eminent  historian,  was  born  in  1S00,  in  Worcester, 
Massachusetts.  He  graduated  at  Harvard  College  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen. 
The  next  year  he  went  to  Europe,  and  studied  for  four  years  at  Gottingen  and 
Berlin,  and  traveled  in  Germany,  Italy,  Switzerland,  and  England.  On  bis  return, 
in  1833,  he  published  a  volume  of  poems,  which  were  principally  written  while 
he  was  abroad.  He  soon  after  established  the  academy  at  Round  Bill,  at  North- 
ampton. He  was  appointed  collector  of  Boston  in  1838;  was  made  secretary  of 
the  navy  in  1845;  was  sent  as  minister  plenipotentiary  to  England  in  1^4»">;  and 
on  his  return,  in  1S10,  became  a  resident  of  New  York,  where  he  has  since  de- 
voted himself  principally  to  the  composition  of  his  "History  of  the  United 
States,"  the  ninth  volume  of  which  appeared  in  1886.  He  has  also  lately  pub- 
lished a  volume  of  "Literary  and  Historical  Miscellanies."  Ills"  History  of 
the  United  States"  has  been  published  in  its  original  language  in  London  and 
Paris,  and  has  been  translated  into  several  foreign  languages.  It  is  a  work  of 
great  labor,  originality,  and  ability,  and  eminently  American,  in  the  best  sense 
of  that  word  as  used  in  regard  to  literature.  It  is  the  most  accurate  and  philo- 
sophical account  that  has  been  given  of  the  United  States ;  and  is  elaborately 
and  strongly,  yet  elegantly  written.  ** 


172  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

V. 

40.     THE    REVOLUTIONARY    RISING. 

OUT  of  the  North  the  wild  news  came, 
Far  flashing  on  its  wings  of  flame, 
Swift  as  the  boreal '  light  which  flies 
At  midnight  through  the  startled  skies. 
And  there  was  tumult  in  the  air, 

The  fife's  shrill  note,  the  drum's  loud  beat, 
And  through  the  wide  land  everywhere 

The  answering  tread  of  hurrying  feet ; 
While  the  first  6ath  of  Freedom's  gun 
Came  on  the  blast  from  Lexington  ; 
And  Concord  roused,  no  longer  tame, 
Forgot  her  old  baptismal  name, 
Made  bare  her  patriot  arm  of  power, 
And  swelled  the  di.cord  of  the  hour. 

2.  Within  its  shade  of  elm  and  oak 

The  church  of  Berkley  Manor  stood  ; 
There  Sunday  found  the  rural  folk, 

And  some  esteemed  of  gentle  blood. 

In  vain  their  feet  with  loitering  tread 
Passed  mid  the  graves  where  rank  is  naught ; 
All  could  not  read  the  lesson  taught 

In  that  republic  of  the  dead. 

8.  How  sweet  the  hour  of  Sabbath  talk, 

The  vale  with  peace  and  sunshine  full, 
Where  all  the  happy  people  walk, 

Decked  in  their  homespun  flax  and  wool ! 

Where  youth's  gay  hats  with  blossoms  bloom  ; 
And  every  maid,  with  simple  art, 
Wears  on  her  breast,  like  her  own  heart, 

A  bud  whose  depths  are  all  perfume  ; 
While  every  garment's  gentle  stir 
Is  breathing  rose  and  lavender. 

4-  The  pastor  came  ;  hi3  snowy  locks 

Hallowed  his  brow  of  thought  and  care  ; 


1  B5'  re  al,  northern  ;  pertaining  to  the  north,  or  the  north  wind. 


THE    REVOLUTIONARY    RISING.  173 

And  calmly,  as  shepherds  lead  their  flocks, 

He  led  into  the  house  of  prayer. 
Then  soon  he  rose  ;  the  prayer  was  strong  ; 
The  psalm  was  warrior  David's  song  ; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might, — 
"  The  Lord  of  hods  shall  arm  Ihe  rigid  !" 
He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured  ; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compelled  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme's  broad  wing, 

And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 

The  imaginary  battle-brand, 
In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fliug 
Defiance  to  a  tyrant  king. 

5.  Even  as  he  spoke,  his  frame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude, 

Rose,  as  it  seemed,  a  shoulder  higher  ; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  fire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir  ; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 
And,  lo !  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior's  guise. 

6.  A  moment  there  was  awful  pause, — 

When  Berkley  cried,  "Cease,  traitor!  cease! 
God's  temple  is  the  house  of  peace!" 

The  other  shouted,  "  Nay,  not  so, 
When  God  is  with  our  righteous  cause  ; 
His  holiest  places  then  are  ours, 
His  temples  are  our  forts  and  towers 

That  frown  upon  the  tyrant  foe  ; 
In  this,  the  dawn  of  Freedom's  day, 
There  is  a  time  to  fight  and  pray !" 

7.  And  now  before  the  open  door — 

The  warrior  priest  had  ordered  so — 
The  enlisting  trumpet's  sudden  roar 


174  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Rang  through  the  chapel,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Its  long  reverberating  blow, 
So  loud  and  clear,  it  seemed  the  ear 
Of  dusty  death  must  wake  and  hear. 
And  there  the  startling  drum  and  fife 
Fired  the  living  with  fiercer  life  ; 
"While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
Forgetting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace, 

The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before  : 
It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease  ; 
And  every  word  its  ardor  flung 
From  off  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 

Was,  "  War !  War  !  WAR !" 

8.  "  Who  dares  ?" — this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 

As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came, — 

"  Come  out  with  me,  in  Freedom's  name, 

For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die  ?" 

A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 

A  hundred  voices  answered,  "  I !"  Read. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read  was  born  in  Chester  County,  Pennsylvania,  March 
12th,  1822.  In  1839  he  went  to  Cincinnati,  where  he  was  employed  in  the  studio 
of  Clevenger,  the  sculptor,  and  here  his  attention  was  first  called  to  painting, 
which  he  chose  for  his  profession,  and  soon  practiced  with  marked  skill  and 
success.  He  settled  in  New  York  City  in  1841.  After  a  few  months  he  removed 
to  Boston,  where  he  remained  until  184G,  and  then  went  to  Philadelphia,  where 
he  practiced  his  profession,  writing  occasionally  for  periodicals,  until  1850,  when 
he  first  visited  Europe.  In  the  summer  of  1853  he  went  abroad  a  second  time, 
and  settled  in  Florence,  where  until  recently  he  has  resided.  In  1853  he  issred 
an  illustrated  edition  of  his  poems,  comprising,  with  some  new  pieces,  all  he 
wished  to  preserve  of  volumes  previously  printed.  In  1855,  he  published  "  The 
House  by  the  Sea"  and  "The  New  Pastoral," — the  latter,  in  thirty-seven  books, 
being  the  longest  of  his  poems.  The  above  is  from  his  latest  work,  "The  Wag- 
oner of  the  Allcghanies."  Mr.  Read's  distinguishing  characteristic  is  a  delicate 
and  varied  play  of  fancy.  His  verse,  though  sometimes  irregular,  is  always 
musical.  He  excels  in  homely  descriptions.  The  flowers  by  the  dusty  wayside, 
the  cheerful  murmur  of  the  meadow  brook,  the  village  tavern,  and  rustic  mill, 
and  all  tender  impulses  and  affections,  are  his  choice  sources  of  inspiration. 


H 


VI. 

41.     THE    SETTLER. 


IS  echoing  ax  the  settler  swung 


Amid  the  sea-like  solitude, 
And  rushing,  thundering,  down  were  flung 


THE    SETTLER.  175 

The  Titans '  of  the  wood  ; 
Loud  shrieked  the  eagle  as  he  dashed 
From  out  his  mossy  nest,  which  crashed 

With  its  supporting  bough, 
And  the  first  sunlight,  leaping,  flashed 

On  the  wolfs  haunt  below. 

2.  Rude  was  the  garb,  and  strong  the  frame 

Of  him  who  plied  his  ceaseless  toil : 
To  form  that  garb,  the  wild-wood  game 

Contributed  their  spoil ; 
The  soul  that  warmed  that  frame,  disdained 
The  tinsel,  gaud,  and  glare,  that  reigned 

"Where  men  their  crowds  collect ; 
The  simple  fur,  untrimmed,  unstained, 

This  forest  tamer  decked. 

3.  The  paths  which  wound  mid  gorgeous  trees, 

The  streams  whose  bright  lips  kissed  their  flowers, 
The  winds  that  swelled  their  harmonies 

Through  those  sun-hiding  bowers, 
The  temple  vast — the  green  arcade, 
The  nestling  vale,  the  grassy  glade, 

Dark  cave  and  swampy  lair  ; 
These  scenes  and  sounds  majestic,  made 

His  world,  his  pleasures,  there. 

4.  His  roof  adorned  a  pleasant  spot, 

Mid  the  black  logs  green  glowed  the  grain, 
And  /ierbs  and  plants  the  woods  knew  not, 

Throve  in  the  sun  and  rain. 
The  smoke-wreath  curling  o'er  the  dell, 
The  low — the  bleat — the  tinkling  bell, 

All  made  a  landscape  strange, 
Which  was  the  living  chronicle 

Of  deeds  that  wrought  the  change. 

5.  The  violet  sprung  at  Spring's  first  tinge, 

The  rose  of  summer  spread  its  glow, 
The  maize  hung  on  its  Autumn  fringe, 
Rude  Winter  brought  his  snow  ; 

1  TV  tans,  fabled  giants  of  ancient  mythology  ;  hence,  whatever  is  enor» 
mous  in  size  or  strength. 


176  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

And  still  the  settler  labored  there, 
His  shout  and  whistle  woke  the  air, 

As  cheerily  he  plied 
His  garden  spade,  or  drove  his  share 

Along  the  hillock's  side. 

6.  He  marked  the  fire-storm's  blazing  flood 

Roaring  and  crackling  on  its  path, 
And  scorching  earth,  and  melting  wood, 

Beneath  its  greedy  wrath  ; 
He  marked  the  rapid  whirlwind  shoot, 
Trampling  the  pine-tree  with  its  foot, 

And  darkening  thick  the  dav 
With  streaming  bough  and  severed  root, 

Hurled  whizzing  on  its  way. 

7.  His  gaunt  hound  yelled,  his  rifle  flashed, 

The  grim  bear  hushed  its  savage  growl, 
In  blood  and  foam  the  panther  gnashed 

Its  fangs  with  dying  howl ; 
The  fleet  deer  ceased  its  flying  bound, 
Its  snarling  wolf  foe  bit  the  ground, 

And  with  its  moaning  cry, 
The  beaver  sank  beneath  the  wound, 

Its  pond-built  Venice !  by. 

8.  Humble  the  lot,  yet  his  the  race, 

When  Liberty  sent  forth  her  cry, 
Who  thronged  in  conflict's  deadliest  place, 

To  fight — to  bleed — to  die  ; 
Who  cumbered  Bunker's 2  height  of  red, 
By  hope,  through  weary  years  were  led, 

And  witnessed  Yorktown's 3  sun 

1  Pond-built  Venice.  The  city  of  Charlcstown,  Massachusetts,  celebra- 
Venice,  one  of  the  finest  in  Europe,  ted  as  the  place  where  the  first  great 
is  built  on  eighty-two  small  islands,  battlo  was  fought  between  the  Brit- 
separated  by  one  hundred  and  fifty  ish  and  Americans,  on  thememorable 
canals,  which  are  crossed  by  three  17th  of  June,  1775. 
hundred  and  sixty  bridges.  Tho  3  Yorktown,  Virginia,  whero  was 
beaver  constructs  his  habitation  in  fought  tho  final  battle  of  the  Revo- 
the  water,  and  the  different  parts  lutionary  war,  resulting  in  tho  sur- 
bavo  no  communication  except  by  render  of  Lord  Cornwallis  to  Gen- 
water,and  hence  the  poetical  all  usioii.  oral   Washington,  on   the    19th   of 

9  Bunker  Hill,    a    height     near  October,  1781. 


THE    STAR-SPANGLED    BANNER.  177 

Blaze  on  a  nation's  banner  spread, 

A  nation's  freedom  won.  Street. 

Albert  B.  Street  was  born  in  Poughkecpsic,  a  large  and  beautiful  town  on 
the  Hudson,  on  the  ISth  of  December,  1811.  His  father,  Geu.  Randall  S.  Street, 
was  an  officer  in  active  service  during  our  second  war  with  England,  and  subse- 
quently several  years  a  representative  in  Congress.  "When  the  poet  was  about 
fourteen  years  of  age  his  father  removed  to  Mouticello,  Sullivan  County,  then 
what  i3  called  a  "wild  county,"  though  extremely  fertile.  Its  magniGccnt 
scenery,  deep  forests,  clear  streams,  gorges  of  piled  rocks  and  black  shade,  and 
mountains  and  valleys,  called  into  life  all  the  faculties  that  slumbered  in  tho 
brain  of  the  young  poet.  He  studied  law  in  the  office  of  his  father,  and  attended 
lhe  courts  of  Sullivan  County  for  one  year  after  his  admission  to  the  bar;  but 
in  the  winter  of  1839  he  removed  to  Albany,  where  he  successfully  practiced  his 
profession.  For  several  years  past  he  has  been  State  Librarian.  The  most  com- 
plete edition  of  his  poems  was  published  in  New  York,  in  1845.  Mr.  Street  is  a 
descriptive  poet,  and  in  his  peculiar  department  he  has,  perhaps,  no  superior  in 
this  country.  He  writes  with  apparent  case  and  freedom,  from  the  impulses  of 
hia  own  heart,  and  from  actual  observations  of  life  and  nature. 

VII. 

42.     THE    STAR-SPANGLED    BANNER. 

1. 

SAY,  can  you  sec,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 


o 


"What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming ; 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars,  through  the  perilous  fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  streaming? 
And  the  rockets'  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there  ; 
O,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

2. 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze  o'er  the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 

Now  it  catehes  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam  ; 

Its  full  glory,  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream  ; 

Tis  the  star-spangled  banner,  oh !  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

3. 

And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore, 
'Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 


178  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

A  home  and  a  country  they'd  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  hath  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution  ; 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling"  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

L 

Oh !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  our  loved  home  and  the  war's  desolation  ; 

Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 

Praise  the  power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation ' 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our.  Tkust  ;" 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave.         Key. 

Francis  Scott  Key,  son  of  an  army  officer  of  the  Revolution,  -was  born  in 
Frederick  County,  Maryland,  in  1779.  He  commenced  the  practice  of  law  at 
Frcdcricktown  in  1801,  but  soon  removed  to  Washington,  D.  C,  "where  he  became 
District-Attorney  for  the  city.  He  died  January  11th,  1S-13.  A  small  volume  of 
his  poems  was  published  in  1S57. 

vm. 

43.     THE    AMERICAN    FLAG. 

\  \  I  IIHN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 
V  V        Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 
And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  : 
She  mingled  wi«h  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure  celestial  white, 
"With  streaking3  of  the  morning  light ; 
Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

2.  Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud ! 

"Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

"When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 


THE    AMERICAN    FLAG.  179 

And  rolls  the  thunder  drum  of  heaven — 
Child  of  the  sun !  to  thee  'tis  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory ! 

3.  Flag  of  the  brave !  thy  folds  shall  fiy, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
AVhen  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  lino  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn  ; 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance  : 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabers  rise  and  fall 

Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall  ; 

There  shall  thy  meteor  glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

4.  Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  Death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  sec  thy  splendors  fly 

In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

5.  Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given ! 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 
And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 


180  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us !       Drake. 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake,  author  of  "The  Culprit  Fay,"  was  horn  in  the  city 
of  New  York,  August  7th,  1795.  He  entered  Columbia  College  at  an  early  period, 
through  which  he  passed  with  a  reputation  for  scholarship,  taste,  and  admirable 
social  qualities.  He  soon  after  made  choice  of  the  medical  profession,  and  com- 
pleted his  professional  studies  in  his  native  city.  Immediately  after  he  was 
married  to  Miss  Sarah  Eckford,  a  daughter  of  the  noted  marine  architect,  Henry 
Eckford,  through  whom  he  inherited  a  moderate  fortune.  His  health,  about  the 
same  time,  began  to  decline  ;  and  in  the  winter  of  1S19  he  visited  New  Orleans. 
He  had  anticipated  some  benefit  from  the  sea-voyage  and  the  mild  climate  of 
Louisiana,  but  was  disappointed,  and  in  the  spring  of  1S20,  he  returned  to  New 
York.  His  disease — consumption — had  now  become  deeply  seated.  He  lingered 
through  the  summer,  and  died  near  the  close  of  September,  in  the  twenty-sixth 
year  of  his  age.  He  began  to  write  verses  when  very  young,  and  was  a  contrib- 
utor to  several  gazettes  before  he  was  sixteen  years  old.  The  secrets  of  his 
authorship,  however,  were  only  known  to  his  most  intimate  friends.  His  longest 
poem,  "  The  Culprit  Fay,"  was  composed  in  the  summer  of  1819,  though  it  was 
not  printed  until  several  years  after  his  death.  It  exhibits  the  most  delicate 
fancy,  and  much  artistic  taste.  Drake  placed  a  very  modest  estimate  on  his  own 
productions,  and  it  is  thought  that  but  a  small  portion  of  them  has  been  pre- 
served. A  collection  of  them  appeared  in  1836.  It  includes,  besides  "The Cul- 
prit Fay,"  eighteen  short  pieces,  some  of  which  are  very  beautiful. 


SECTION    VIII. 
I. 

44.     WANTS. 

PART   TIRST. 

EVERYBODY,  young  and  old,  children  and  gray-beards,  lias 
heard  of  the  renowned  Haroun  Al  Baschid,1  the  hero  of 
Eastern  history  and  Eastern  romance',  and  the  most  illustrious 
of  the  caliphs9  of  Bagdad,3  that  famous  city  on  which  the  light  of 

1  Haroun  al  Raschid,  (ha  ron^-al-  tativc   of  Mohammed ;    one  vested 

rash' id),  a  celebrated  caliph  of  the  with  supreme  dignity  and  power  in 

Saracens,  ascended  the  throne  in  78G,  all  matters  relating  to  religion  and 

and  was  a  contemporary  of  Charlc-  civil  policy.     This  title  is  borne  by 

magne.     He  was  brave,  munificent,  the  grand  seignior  in  Turkey,  and 

and  fond  of  letters,  but  cruel  and  by  the  sophi  of  Persia, 

perfidious.  s  Bagdad,  (bag  dad'),  a  large  and 

9  Ca'  liph,  a  successor  or  roprcscn-  celebrated   city  of  Asiatic   Turkey, 


WANTS.  181 

learning  and  science  shone,  long  ere  it  dawned  on  the  benighted 
regions  of  Europe,  which  has  since  succeeded  to  the  diadem  that 
once  glittered  on  the  brow  of  Asia.  Though  as  the  successor  of 
the  Prophet  he  exercised  a  despotic  sway  over  the  lives  and  for- 
tunes of  his  subjects,  yet  did  ho  not,  like  the  Eastern  despots  of 
more  modern  times,  shut  himself  up  within  the  walls  of  his 
palace,  hearing  nothing  but  the  adulation  of  his  dependents  ; 
seeing  nothing  but  the  shadows  which  surrounded  him  ;  and 
knowing  nothing  but  what  he  received  through  the  medium  of 
interested  deception  or  malignant  falsehood. 

2.  That  he  miedit  sec  with  his  own  eves  and  hear  with  his 
own  ears,  he  was  accustomed  to  go  about  through  the  streets  of 
Bagdad'  by  night,  in  disguise,  accompanied  by  (1  infer  the  Bar- 
mecide, his  grand  vizier,1  and  Mcsrour,  his  executioner  ;  one  to 
give  him  his  counsel,  the  other  to  fulfill  his  commands  promptly, 
on  all  occasions.  If  he  saw  any  commotion  among  the  people, 
he  mixed  with  them  and  learned  its  cause  ;  and  if  in  passing  a 
house  he  heard  the  moanings  of  distress  or  the  complaints  of 
suffering,  he  entered,  for  the  purpose  of  administering  relief. 
Thus  ho  made  himself  acquainted  with  the  condition  of  his  sub- 
jects, and  often  heard  those  salutary  truths  which  never  reached 
his  ears  through  the  walls  of  his  palace,  or  from  the  lrps  of  the 
slaves  that  surrounded  him. 

3.  On  one  of  these  occasions,  as  Al  Haschid  was  thus  peram- 
bulating the  streets  at  night,  in  disguise,  accompanied  by  his 
vizier  and  his  executioner,  in  passing  a  splendid  mansion  he 
overheard,  through  the  lattico  of  a  window,  the  complaints  of 
some  one  who  seemed  in  the  deepest  distress,  and  silently  ap- 
proaching, looked  into  an  apartment  exhibiting  all  the  signs  of 
wealth  and  luxury.  On  a  sofa  of  satin  embroidered  with  gold, 
and  sparkling  with  brilliant  gems,  he  beheld  a  man  richly  dressed, 
in  whom  he  rec'ognized  his  favorite  boon-companion  Bedrcddin, 
on  whom  he  had  showered  wealth  and  honors  with  more  than 
Eastern  prodigality.  He  was  stretched  out  on  the  sofa,  slapping 
his  forehead,  tearing  his  beard,  and  moaning  piteously,  as  if  in 
the  extremity  of  suffering.    At  length  starting  up  on  his  feet,  he 

formerly  capital  of  the  empire  of  tlic  its  junction  with  the  Euphrates, 

caliphs,  now  capital  of  the  pashalic  l  Vizier,  (viz'  yer),  a  councilor  of 

of  the  same  name,  on  both  banks  of  state  ;  a   high   executive  officer  in 

the  Tigris,  about   100   miles   above  Turkev  and  other  Eastern  countries. 


182  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

exclaimed  in  tones  of  despair,  "  O  Allah  (God) !  I  beseech  thee 
to  relieve  me  from  my  misery,  and  take  away  my  life !" 

4.  The  Commander  of  the  Faithful,  who  loved  Bedreddin, 
pitied  his  sorrows,  and  being  desirous  to  know  their  cause,  that 
he  might  relieve  them,  knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened 
by  a  black  slave,  who,  on  being  informed  that  they  were  stran- 
gers in  want  of  food  and  rest,  at  once  admitted  them,  and  in- 
formed his  master,  who  called  them  into  his  presence  and  bade 
them  welcome.  A  plentiful  feast  was  spread  before  them,  at  which 
the  master  of  the  house  sat  down  with  his  guests,  but  of  which 
he  did  not  partake,  but  looked  on,  sighing  bitterly  all  the  while. 

5.  The  Commander  of  the  Faithful  at  length  ventured  to  ask 
him  what  caused  his  distress,  and  why  he  refrained  from  partak- 
ing in  the  feast  with  his  guests,  in  proof  that  they  were  welcome. 
"  Has  Allah  afflicted  thee  with  disease,  that  thou  canst  not  enjoy 
the  blessings  he  has  bestowed  ?  Thou  art  surrounded  by  all  the 
splendor  that  wealth  can  procure  ;  thy  dwelling  is  a  palace,  and 
its  apartments  are  adorned  with  all  the  luxuries  which  captivate 
the  eye,  or  administer  to  the  gratification  of  the  senses.  "Why 
is  it,  then,  O  my  brother,  that  thou  art  miserable  r" 

6.  "  True,  O  stranger,"  replied  Bedreddin.  "  I  have  all  these  ; 
I  have  health  of  body  ;  I  am  rich  enough  to  purchase  all  that 
wealth  can  bestow,  and  if  I  required  more  wealth  and  honors,  I 
am  the  favorite  companion  of  the  Commander  of  the  Faithful, 
on  whose  head  lie  the  blessings  of  Allah,  and  of  whom  I  have 
only  to  ask,  to  obtain  all  I  desire,  save  one  thing  only." 

7.  "  And  what  is  that  ?"  asked  the  caliph.  "  Alas !  I  adore 
the  beautiful  Zuleima,  whose  face  is  like  the  full  moon,  whose 
eyes  are  brighter  and  softer  than  those  of  the  gazelle,  and  whose 
mouth  is  like  the  seal  of  Solomon.  But  she  loves  another,  end 
all  my  wealth  and  honors  are  as  nothing.  The  want  of  one 
thing  renders  the  possession  of  every  other  of  no  value.  I  am 
the  most  wretched  of  men  ;  my  life  is  a  burden,  and  my  death 
would  be  a  blessing." 

8.  "  By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet,"  cried  the  caliph,  "  I  swear, 
thy  case  is  a  hard  one.  But  Allah  is  great  and  powerful,  and 
will,  I  trust,  either  deliver  thee  from  thy  burden  or  give  thee 
strength  to  bear  it."  Then  thanking  Bedreddin  for  his  hospi- 
tality, the  Commander  of  the  Faithful  departed,  with  his  com- 
panions. 


WANTS.  133 

n. 

45.     WANTS. 

PART    SECOND. 

TAKING  their  way  toward  that  part  of  the  city  inhabited 
by  the  poorer  classes  of  people,  the  caliph  stumbled  over 
something,  in  the  obscurity  of  night,  and  was  nigh  falling  to 
the  ground :  at  the  same  moment  a  voice  cried  out,  "  Allah, 
preserve  me !  Am  I  not  wretched  enough  already,  that  I  must 
be  trodden  under  foot  by  a  wandering  beggar  like  myself,  in  the 
darkness  of  night!" 

2.  Mesrour  the  executioner,  indignant  at  this  insult  to  the 
Commindcr  of  the  Faithful,  was  preparing  to  cut  off  his  head, 
when  Ali  II  ischid  interposed,  and  inquired  of  the  beggar  his 
name,  and  why  he  was  there  Bleeping  in  the  streets,  at  that  hour 
of  the  ni^ht. 

3.  "  Mashallah,"  replied  he,  "  I  sleep  in  the  street  because  I 
have  nowhere  else  to  sleep  ;  and  if  I  lie  on  a  satin  sofa,  my  joains 
and  infirmities  would  rob  mo  of  rest.  Whether  on  divans'  of 
silk  or  in  the  dirt,  all  one  to  me,  for  neither  by  day  nor  by  night 
do  I  know  any  rest.  If  I  close  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  my 
dreams  arc  of  nothing  but  feasting,  and  I  awake  only  to  feel 
more  bitterly  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  disease." 

4.  "  Hast  thou  no  home  to  shelter  thee,  no  friends  or  kindred 
to  relieve  thy  necessities,  or  administer  to  thy  infirmities  ?" 

5.  "  No,"  replied  the  beggar  ;  "  my  house  was  consumed  by 
fire  ;  my  kindred  are  all  dead,  and  my  friends  have  djscrted  me. 
Alas !  stranger,  I  am  in  want  of  everything — health,  food,  cloth- 
ing, home,  kindred,  and  friends.  I  am  the  most  wretched  of 
mankind,  and  death  alone  can  relieve  me." 

6.  "  Of  one  thing,  at  least,  I  can  relieve  thee,"  said  the  caliph, 
giving  him  his  purse.  "  Go  and  provide  thyself  food  and  shel- 
ter, and  may  Allah  restore  thy  health." 

7.  The  beggar  took  the  purse,  but  instead  of  calling  down 
blessings  on  the  head  of  his  benefactor,  exclaimed,  "  Of  what 
use  is  money  ?  it  can  not  cure  disease  ;"and  the  caliph  again  went 
on  his  way  with  Giafcr  his  vizier,  and  Mesrour  his  executioner. 


184  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER 


m. 

46.    WANTS. 

PAST    THIRD. 

ASSING  from  the  abodes  of  want  and  misery,  they  at  length 


p 


reached  a  splendid  palace,  and  seeing  lights  glimmering 
from  the  windows,  the  caliph  approached,  and  looking  through 
the  silken  curtains,  beheld  a  man  walking  backward  and  forward, 
with  languid  step,  as  if  oppressed  with  a  load  of  cares.  At  length 
casting  himself  down  on  a  sofa,  he  stretched  out  his  limbs,  and 
yawning  desperately,  exclaimed,  "  O  Allah !  what  shall  I  do  ? 
what  will  become  of  me !  I  am  weary  of  life  ;  it  is  nothing  but 
a  cheat,  promising  what  it  never  purposes,  and  affording  only 
hopes  that  end  in  disappointment,  or,  if  realized,  only  in  disgust." 

2.  The  curiosity  of  the  caliph  being  awakened  to  know  the 
cause  of  his  despair,  he  ordered  Mesrour  to  knock  at  the  door  ; 
which  being  opened,  they  pleaded  the  privilege  of  strangers  to 
enter,  for  rest  and  refreshments.  Again,  in  accordance  with  the 
precepts  of  the  Ko'ran  and  the  customs  of  the  East,  the  stran- 
gers were  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the  lord  of  the  palace, 
who  received  them  with  welcome,  and  directed  refreshments  to 
be  brought.  But  though  he  treated  his  guests  with  kindness, 
he  neither  sat  down  with  them  nor  asked  any  questions,  nor 
joined  in  their  discourse,  walking  back  and  forth  languidly,  and 
seeming  oppressed  with  a  heavy  burden  of  sorrows. 

3.  At  length  the  caliph  approached  him  reverently,  and  said  : 
"  Thou  seemest  sorrowful,  O  my  brother !  If  thy  suffering  is  of 
the  body,  I  am  a  physician,  and  per  adventure  can  afford  thee 
relief  ;  for  I  have  traveled  into  distant  lands,  and  collected  very 
choice  remedies  for  human  infirmity." 

4.  "  My  sufferings  are  not  of  the  body,  but  of  the  mind,"  an- 
swered the  other. 

5.  "  Hast  thou  lost  the  beloved  of  thy  heart,  the  friend  of  thy 
bosom,  or  been  disappointed  in  the  attainment  of  that  on  which 
thou  hast  rested  all  thy  hopes  of  happiness  ?" 

6.  "  Alas !  no.  I  have  been  disappointed,  not  in  the  means, 
but  in  the  attainment  of  happiness.  I  want  nothing  but  a  want. 
I  am  cursed  with  the  gratification  of  all  my  wishes,  and  the 
fruition  of  all  my  hopes.    I  have  wasted  my  life  in  the  acquisition 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  185 

of  riches,  that  only  awakened  new  desires,  and  honors  that  no 
longer  gratify  my  pride  or  repay  me  for  the  labor  of  sustaining 
them.  I  have  been  cheated  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasures  that 
weary  me  in  the  enjoyment,  and  am  perishing  for  lack  of  the 
excitement  of  some  new  want.  I  have  every  thing  I  wish,  yet 
enjoy  nothing." 

7.  "  Thy  case  is  beyond  my  skill,"  replied  the  caliph  ;  and 
the  man  cursed  with  the  fruition  of  all  his  desires  turned  his 
back  on  him  in  despair.  The  caliph,  after  thanking  him  for  his 
hospitality,  departed  with  his  companions,  and  when  they  hud 
reached  the  street  exclaimed — 

8.  "Allah  preserve  me!  I  will  no  longer  fatigue  myself  in  a 
vain  pursuit,  for  it  is  impossible  to  confer  haj^piness  on  such  a 
perverse  generation.  I  see  it  is  all  the  same,  whether  a  mail 
wants  one  thing,  every  thing,  or  nothing.  Let  us  go  home  and 
sleep."  Paulding. 

James  Kirke  Paulding  was  born  August  2~,  1770,  in  the  town  of  Pawling,  on 
the  Hudson,  so  named  from  one  of  his  ancestors.  After  receiving  a  liberal  edu- 
cation, he  removed  to  New  York  City,  where  he  has  since  principally  rc-sided. 
After  writing  some  trifles  for  the  gazettes,  Mr.  Paulding,  with  Washington 
Irving,  established  a  periodical  entitled  "Salmagundi,''  in  1S07.  It  met  with 
extraordinary  success,  and  was,  perhaps,  the  determining  cause  of  the  author's 
subsequent  devotion  to  literature.  In  1819,  Mr.  Paulding  published  a  second 
series  of  the  "Salmagundi,"  of  which  he  was  the  sole  author.  He  is  a  volumin- 
ous writer.  His  various  works,  including  stories,  essays,  and  other  papers,  which 
he  has  published  in  periodicals,  make  more  than  thirty  volumes.  "  The  Dutch 
man's  Fireside,"  published  in  1831,  and  "Westward  Ho,"  published  the  next 
year,  arc  regarded  as  his  best  novels.  They  arc  distinguished  for  considerable 
descriptive  powers,  skill  in  character-writing,  natural  humor,  and  a  strong  na- 
tional feeling,  which  gives  a  tone  to  all  his  works.  Mr.  Paulding  was  many 
years  navy  agent  for  the  port  of  New  York.  When  President  Van  Burin  formed 
his  cabinet,  in  the  spring  of  1837,  he  was  selected  to  be  the  head  of  the  navy 
department,  in  which  ofhec  he  continued  for  four  years.  lie  died  at  his  country 
seat  in  Hyde  Park,  in  his  native  county,  in  l^. 

IV. 

47.     THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

PABT   FIRST. 

SWEET  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
YVTiere  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  laboring  swain, 
Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 
And  parting  Summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed  : 
Bear,  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease, 


186  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 
Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm, — 
The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 
The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighboring  hill, 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade, 
For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made ! 

2.  How  often  have  I  blessed  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  aid  to  play, 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free, 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree ! 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed  ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  6'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired, 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired  : 

The  dancing  pair,  that  simply  sought  renown 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 

The  swain,  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face, 

WThile  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place ; 

The  bashful  virgin's  sidelong  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  these  looks  reprove  : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village  !  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  e'en  toil  to  please  ; 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed, 

These  were  thy  charms  ; — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

3.  Sweet,  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn, 

Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn  : 

Amid  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 

And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green  ; 

One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 

And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way  ; 

Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest ; 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  187 

Amid  tliy  desert  walks  tlie  lapwing  flics, 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 

And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  moldering  wall ; 

And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land 

4.  HI  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey, 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay  : 
Princes  and  lords  may  nourish  or  may  fade  ; 

A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made, 

But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride, 

When  once  destroyed  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 

When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man  ; 

For  him  light  labor  spread  her  wholesome  store, 

Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more  ; 

His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health  ; 

And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered  :  trade's  unfeeling  train 

Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 

Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose, 

Un wieldly  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose  ; 

And  every  want  to  luxury  allied, 

And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 

Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 

Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 

Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene, 

Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green  ; — 

These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore, 

And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

5.  Sweet  Aubum !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds, 

Amid  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Bemembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  tarns  the  past  to  pain. 
In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 


188  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  ilame  from  wasting  by  repose  : 
I  still  had  hopes, — for  pride  attends  us  still, — 
Amid  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill  *, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt  and  all  I  saw  ; 
And  as  a  hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

6.  O  blessed  retirement !  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreat  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine, 

How  blessed  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  these, 
A  youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 
"Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep  ; 
Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend  ; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 
And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last, 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past. 

7.  Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  6ft,  at  evening's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  : 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below  ; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milkmaid  sung, 

The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young  , 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool, 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school ; 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind  : 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade, 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  189 

8.  But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  Hush  of  life  is  fled  : 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing, 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring  : 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread, 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wintry  fagot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn — 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

V. 

48.     THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

PART   SECOND. 

NEAR  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden-flower  grows  wild, 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear, 
And  passing  rich  witli  forty  pounds  a  year  ; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change,  his  place. 
Unskillful  ho  to  fawn  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour  : 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
2.  His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train  : 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
"Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast  : 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed. 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  niefht  away. 
"Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch,  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 


190  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER, 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

3.  Thus,  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  virtue's  side  ; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt,  for  alL 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay, 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 
Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

4.  At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place  ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway, 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scuff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 

"With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  ; 

E'en  children  followed  with  endearing  wile, 

And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 

His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed  ; 

Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed  : 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs,  were  given,   . 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

As  some  tall  cliff,  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 

Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 

Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread, 

Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

5.  Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school : 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  : 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  ; 
"Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  191 

Full  well  tlicy  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  Lis  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  ; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 

G.  Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew — 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
"While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
"Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 

7.  Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
"Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 

Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired. 

Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired, 

"Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 

And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 

Imagination  fondly  stops  to  trace 

The  parlor  splendors  of  that  festive  place  ; 

The  white-washed  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  iloor, 

The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door  ; 

The  chest,  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 

A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose  ; 

The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 

"With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers,  and  fennel  gay  ; 

"While  broken  teacups,  wisely  kept  for  show, 

Ranged  O'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

8.  Vain,  transitory  splendors !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 

An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart ; 


192  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care  ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  wTooclman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Eelax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  learn  to  hear  ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed, 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

9.  Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train  ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway  ; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
"With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed, 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain, 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain  ; 
And  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

VI. 
49.     THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE. 

PART   THIRD. 

YE  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore  ; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound, 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name, 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 


THE    DESERTED    VILLAGE.  193 

Kot  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 

Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied  ; 

Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 

Space  for  his  horses,  eq'uipage,  and  hounds  ; 

The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 

Has  robbed  the  neighboring  fields  of  half  their  growth  ; 

His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  arc  seen, 

Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green  ; 

Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 

For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies, 

While  thus  the  land,  adorned  for  pleasure  all, 

In  barren  splendor  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

2.  As  some  fair  female,  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes  ; 

But  when  those  charms  are  past — for  charms  are  frail — 

When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail, 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress  ; — 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed, 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  arrayed  ; 

But,  verging  to  decline,  its  splendors  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise  ; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band  ; 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 

The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

3.  Where,  then,  ah !  where  shall  Poverty  reside, 
To  escape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  Pride  ? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade, 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide. 
And  e'en  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  thero  ? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share  ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury  and  thin  mankind  ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  Pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 

9 


194  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There,  the. pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade  ; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomp  display, 
There,  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way  ; 
The  dome  where  Pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train  ; 
Tumultuous  Grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square, 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 

4.  Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 

Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  ? — Ah !  turn  thine  eyes 

Where  the  poor,  houseless,  shivering  female  lies  : 

She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blessed, 

Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distrest ; 

Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn, 

Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn  ; 

Now  lost  to  all,  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 

Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head, 

And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower. 

With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour, 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

5.  Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn,  thine,  the  loveliest  train, 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  ? 

E'en  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led, 

At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread ! 

Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes,  a  dreary  scene, 

Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 

Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 

Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before, 

The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore  ; 

Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray, 

And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 

Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing, 

But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling  ; 

Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned, 

Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around  : 

Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wako 

The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake  ; 


the  deserted  village.  1<j; 

Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey, 
And  savage  men,  mure  murderous  still  than  they  ; 
While  6ft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 

6.  Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene, — 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy-vested  green, 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  Only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven !  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away  ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Returned  and  wept,  and  still  rehu*ned  to  weep ! 

7.  The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 

To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe  ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave, 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears, 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  her  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  blessed  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose  ; 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  manv  a  tear, 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear  ; 
While  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief, 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

8.  Oh,  Luxury !  thou  cursed  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill-exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Baast  of  a  florid  vigor  not  their  own. 

At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank,  unwieldy  woe  ; 
Till,  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 


196  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 

9.  E'en  now  the  devastation  is  begun, 

And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done  ; 

E'en  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 

I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 

Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail, 

That,  idly  waiting,  flaps  with  every  gale, 

Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 

Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 

Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 

And  kind  connubial  Tenderness,  are  there  ; 

And  Piety,  with  wishes  placed  above 

And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 

10.  And  thou,  sweet  Poetry !  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly,  where  sensual  joys  invade ! 
Unfit,  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame, 

To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  Fame  : 
Dear,  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride  ; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe, 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep's  t  me  so, 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well. 

11.  Farewell ;  and  oh !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs  or  Pambamarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervors  glow, 

Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 

Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 

Redress  the  rigors  of  the  inclement  clime  ; 

And  slighted  Truth,  with  thy  persuasive  strain, 

Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain  ; 

Teach  him,  that  States,  of  native  strength  possessed, 

Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blessed  ; 

That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 

As  ocean  sweeps  the  labored  mole  away  ; 

While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy. 

As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.  Goldsmith. 

Oliveu  GoLDSMiTn,  one  of  the  most  pleasing  English  writers  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  was  horn  at  Pallas,  Ireland,  in  Novemher,  1728.  He  was  of  a  Protestant 
and  Saxon  family  which  had  long  been  settled  in  Ireland.  At  the  time  of  Oli- 
ver's birth,  his  father  with  difficulty  supported  his  family  on  what  he  could  earn, 
partly  as  a  curate  and  partly  as  a  farmer.    Soon  after,  he  was  presented  with  a 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE.  197 

living,  worth  about  £200 a-ycar,  near  the  village  ofLissoy,  in  Westmcatfa  County, 
where  the  boy  passed  his  youth  and  received  his  preparatory  instruction.  In 
his  seventeenth  year  Oliver  went  up  to  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  as  a  sizar.  He 
was  quartered,  not  alone,  in  a  garret,  on  the  window  of  which  hi-  nanie,  -crawled 
by  himself,  is  still  read  with  interest.  He  neglected  the  Btudiea  of  the  place, 
stood  low  at  the  examinations,  and  led  a  life  divided  between  squalid  distress 
and  squalid  dissipation.  His  father  died,  leaving  a  mere  pittance.  Oliver  ob- 
tained his  bachelor's  degree,  and  left  the  university.  He  was  now  in  his  twenty- 
first  year;  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  do  something;  and  his  education 
seemed  to  have  litted  him  to  do  nothing  of  moment.  He  tried  five  or  six  pro 
fessions,  in  turn,  without  success.  He  went  to  Edinburgh  in  his  twenty-fourth 
year,  where  he  passed  eighteen  months  in  nominal  attendance  on  lectures,  and 
picked  up  some  superficial  information  about  chemistry  and  natural  history. 
Thence  he  went  to  Lcyden,  still  pretending  to  study  physic.  He  left  that  cele- 
brated university  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  without  a  degree,  and  with  no 
property  but  his  clothes  and  his  flute.  His  flute,  however,  proved  a  useful  friend. 
He  rambled  on  foot  through  Flanders,  France,  and  Switzerland,  playing  tunes 
which  everywhere  set  the  peasantry  dancing,  and  which  often  procured  for  him 
a  supper  and  a  bed.  In  17oG  the  wanderer  landed  at  Dover,  England,  without  a 
shilling,  without  a  friend,  and  without  a  calling.  After  several  expedients  had 
failed,  the  unlucky  adventurer,  at  thirty,  took  a  garret  in  a  miserable  court  in 
London,  and  sat  down  to  the  lowest  drudgery  of  literature.  In  the  succeeding 
six  years  he  produced  articles  for  reviews,  magazines,  and  newspapers;  chil 
drcn's  books;  "An  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,"  a 
"Life  of  Beau  Nash,"  an  excellent  work  of  its  kind;  a  superficial,  but  very 
readable  "History  of  England  ;"  and  "Sketches  of  London  Society."  All  these 
works  were  anonymous;  but  some  of  them  were  well  known  to  be  Goldsmith's. 
He  gradually  rose  in  the  estimation  of  the  booksellers,  and  became  a  popular 
writer.  He  took  chambers  in  the  more  civilized  region  of  the  Inns  of  Court,  and 
became  intimate  with  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Burke,  and  other  eminent  men.  In 
1704  he  published  a  poem,  entitled  "The  Traveler."  It  was  the  first  work  to 
which  he  put  his  name;  and  it  at  once  raised  him  to  the  rank  of  a  legitimate 
English  classic.  Its  execution,  though  deserving  of  much  praise,  is  far  inferior 
to  the  design.  No  philosophic  poem,  ancient  or  modern,  has  a  plan  so  noble, 
and  at  the  same  time  so  simple.  Soon  after  his  novel,  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield," 
appeared,  and  rapidly  obtained  a  popularity  which  is  likely  to  last  as  long  as  our 
language.  This  was  followed  by  a  dramatic  piece,  entitled  the  u Good-natured 
Man."  It  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  in  1708,  but  was  coldly  received.  The 
author,  however,  cleared  by  his  benefit  nights,  and  by  the  sale  of  the  copyright, 
no  less  than  £500.  In  1770  appeared  the  "Deserted  Village.*1  In  diction  and 
versification,  this  celebrated  poem  is  fully  equal,  perhaps  superior,  to  "The 
Traveler."  In  1773,  Goldsmith  tried  his  chance  at  Covent  Garden  with  "She 
Stoops  to  Conquer,"  an  incomparable  farce  in  five  acts,  which  met  with  unpre- 
cedented success.  While  writing  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  and  "She  Stoops  to 
Conquer,"  he  compiled,  for  the  use  of  schools,  a  "History  of  Rome,"  by  which 
he  made  £300;  a  "History  of  England,11  by  which  he  made  £000;  a  "History 
of  Greece,"  for  which  he  received  £250;  and  a  "Natural  History,"  for  which  the 
booksellers  covenanted  to  pay  him  800  guineas.  He  produced  these  works  by 
selecting,  abridging,  and  translating  into  his  own  clear,  pure,  and  flowing  lan- 
guage, what  he  found  in  books  well  known  to  the  world,  but  too  bulky  or  too 
dry  for  boys  and  girls.  He  was  a  great,  perhaps  an  unequaled  master  of  the  arts 
of  selection  and  condensation.  He  died  on  the  4th  of  April,  1774,  in  hi*  forty, 
sixth  year. 


198  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

SECTION    IX. 
I. 

50.     THE    POWER    OF    ART. 

"TTTHEN,  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 

V  V        Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 

And  crossed  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
'Twas  Art !  sweet  Art ! — new  radiance  broke 

Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground  ; 
And  thus  with  seraph  voice  she  spoke, — 

"  Tlie  curse  a  blessing  zhall  be  found." 

2.  She  led  him  through  the  trackless  wild, 

Where  noontide  sunbeams  never  blazed  ; 
The  thistle  shrank,  the  harvest  smiled, 

And  nature  gladdened  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things, 

At  Art's  command  to  him  are  given  ; 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs, 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 

3.  He  rends  the  oak,  and  bids  it  ride, 

To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced  ; 
He  smites  the  rock,  upheaved  in  pride, — 

See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste ! 
Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal ; 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave  ; 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal ; 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

4.  He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  beauty's  lap  to  fill ; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep, 

And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 
WTith  thoughts  that  fill  his  glowing  soul, 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page  ; 
And,  proudly  scorning  Time's  control, 

Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

5.  In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name, 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky  ; 


WORK.  199 

Ho  reads  tho  stars,  and  grasps  the  ilame 
That  quivers  round  the  throne  on  high. 

In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime, 
Ho  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace  ; 

His  power,  subduing  space  and  time, 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race.        Sfragtje 

Charles  Sfbague  was  born  in  Boston,  on  the  2Gth  day  of  October,  1791.  lie 
Was  educated  In  the  schools  of  his  native  city,  which  be  left  at  an  early  period 
to  acquire  a  practical  knowledge  of  trade.  At  twenty-one  years  of  age,  he  com- 
menced the  business  of  merchant  on  his  own  account,  and  continued  in  it  until 

1820,  when  he  was  elected  cashier  of  the  Globe  Bank.  lie  is  still  connected 
with  that  institution.  In  this  period  he  has  found  leisure  to  study  tbe  works  of 
the  greatest  authors,  particularly  those  of  tbe  masters  of  English  poetry, and  to 
write  tbe  admirable  poems  on  which  is  based  bis  own  reputation.  Mr.  Spragu 
first  productions  that  attracted  much  attention,  were  a  series  of  brilliant  pro- 
logues, the  lirst  of  which  was  written  for  the  Park  Theater,  in   New  York,  in 

1821.  "Shakspeore  Ode,"  delivered  in  Boston  Theater,  in  1^2:;,  at  the  exhibition 
of  a  pageant  in  honor  of  Shakspcare,  is  one  of  the  most  vigorous  and  exquisite 
lyrics  In  the  English  language.  "  Curiosity,"  the  longest  and  best  of  his  poems, 
was  delivered  before  tbe  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society,  at  Cambridge,  in  August,  1829. 
Several  of  his  short  poems  evince  great  skill  in  the  use  of  language,  and  show 
him  to  be  a  master  of  the  poetic  art. 

II. 

51.     WORK. 

THERE  is  a  perennial1  nobleness,  and  oven  saercdnesa,  in 
work.  Were  he  never  so  benighted,  forgetful  of  his  high 
calling,  there  is  always  hope  in  a  man  that  actually  and  earnest lv 
works  ;  in  idleness  alone  is  there  perpetual  despair.  Work,  never 
so  Mammonish,3  mean,  is  in  commimication  witli  Nature  :  the 
real  desire  to  get  work  done  will  itself  lead  one  more  and  more  to 
truth,  to  Nature's  appointments  and  regulations  which  are  truth. 
2.  Blessed  is  he  who  has  found  his  work  ;  let  him  ask  no 
other  blessedness.  He  has  a  work,  a  life-puqiosc  ;  he  has  found 
it,  and  will  follow  it.  How,  as  a  free  flowing  channel,  dug  and 
torn  by  noble  force  through  the  sour  mud-swamp  of  one's  exist- 
ence, like  an  ever-deepening  river  there,  it  runs  and  flows !— 
draining  off  the  sour  festering  water  gradually  from  the  root  of 
the  remotest  grass  blade  ;  making,  instead  of  pestilential  swamp, 
a  green  fruitful  meadow  with  its  clear  flowing  stream.     How 

1  Per  en'  ni  al,  literally,  through  or  a  Mam'  mon  ish,  relating  to  Mam- 
beyond  a  year  ;  hence,  enduring ;  mon,  the  Syrian  god  of  riches  :  mer- 
lasting  perpetually.  cenary,  or  procured  by  monoy. 


200  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

blessed  for  the  meadow  itself,  let  the  stream  and  its  value  be 
great  or  small ! 

3.  Labor  is  life  ;  from  the  inmost  heart  of  the  worker  rises  his 
God-given  force,  the  sacred  celestial  life-essence,  breathed  into 
him  by  Almighty  God  ;  from  his  inmost  heart  awakens  him  to 
all  nobleness,  to  all  knowledge,  "  self-knowledge,"  and  much  else, 
so  soon  as  work  fitly  begins.  Knowledge  !  the  knowledge  that 
will  hold  good  in  working,  cleave  thou  to  that ;  for  Nature  her- 
self accredits  that,  says  Yea  to  that.  Properly,  thou  hast  no 
other  knowledge  but  what  thou  hast  got  by  working  :  the  rest 
is  yet  all  a  hypothesis  '  of  knowledge  ;  a  thing  to  be  argued  of 
in  schools,  a  thing  floating  in  the  clouds  in  endless  logic  vor'tices 2 
till  we  try  it  and  fix  it.  "  Doubt,  of  whatever  kind,  can  be  ended 
by  action  alone." 

4.  Older  than  all  preached  gospels 3  was  this  unpreached,  in- 
articulate, but  ineradicable,4  for-ever-enduring  gospel :  work,  and 
therein  have  well-being.  Man,  Son  of  Earth  and  Heaven,  lies 
there  not,  in  the  innermost  heart  of  thee,  a  spirit  of  active 
method,  a  force  for  work  : — and  burns  like  a  painfully  smoldering 
fire,  giving  thee  no  rest  till  thou  unfold  it,  till  thou  write  it  down 
in  beneficent b  facts  around  thee !  What  is  immethodic,6  waste, 
thou  shalt  make  methodic,  regulated,  arable,7  obedient  and  pro- 
ductive to  thee.  Wheresoever  thou  findest  disorder,  there  is 
thy  eternal  enemy  :  attack  him  swiftly,  subdue  him  ;  make  order 
of  him,  tho  subject  not  of  chaos,  but  of  intelligence,  divinity, 
and  thee !  The  thistle  that  grows  in  thy  path,  dig  it  out  that  a 
blade  of  useful  grass,  a  drop  of  nourishing  milk,  may  grow  there 
instead.  The  waste  cotton-shrub,  gather  its  waste  white  down, 
spin  it,  weave  it ;  that,  in  place  of  idle  litter,  there  may  be  folded 
webs,  and  the  naked  skin  of  man  be  covered. 

i  Hy  p8th'  e  sis,  a  proposition  or  the  great  truths  of  Christianity, 

principle  assumed  for  tho  purpose  of  *  In^  e  racT  i  ca  ble,  that  can  not 

argument ;  a  supposition.  he  uprooted  or  destroyed. 

3  Vor'tices,  whirlpools;  whirl-  'Beneficent,  doing  good;  a- 
winds  ;  hence,  logical  vortices  are  hounding  in  acts  of  goodness  ;  char- 
intricate  arguments,  or  arguments  itahle. 

that  contain  so  many  windings  as  to  *  Im'me  th5d'  ic,  having  no  meth- 

bewilder.  od ;  without  systematic  arrangement, 

3  G5s'  pel,  good  news,  hence  the  order,  or  regularity, 

four  books  which  relato  the  history  7  Ar'  a  ble,  fit  for  tillage  or  plow- 

of  the   Saviour  are  called  gospels ;  ing ;  plowed ;  productive. 


WORK.  201 

5.  But,  above  all,  where  thou  fmdest  ignorance,  stupidity, 
brute-mindodness — attack  it,  I  say ;  smite  it  wisely,  unwearied]}*, 
and  rest  not  whilo  thou  Hvest  and  it  lives  ;  but  smite,  smite  in 
the  name  of  God !  Tho  highest  God,  as  I  understand  ic,  does 
audibly  so  command  thee  :  still  audibly,  if  thou  have  ears  to  hear. 
He,  even  He,  with  his  unsj)okcn  voice,  is  fuller  than  any  Sinai ' 
thunders,  or  syllabled  speech  of  whirlwinds  ;  for  the  silence  of 
deep  eternities,  of  worlds  from  beyond  the  morning  stars,  does 
it  not  speak  to  thee  ?  Tho  unborn  ages  ;  the  old  graves,  with 
their  long-nioldering  dust,  the  very  tears  that  wetted  it,  now  all 
dry — do  not  these  speak  to  thee  what  ear  hath  not  heard  ?  Tho 
deep  death-kingdoms,  the  stars  in  their  never-resting  courses,  all 
space  and  all  time,  proclaim  it  to  thee  in  continual  silent  admo- 
nition. Thou,  too,  if  ever  man  should,  shalt  work  while  it  is 
called  to-day  ;  for  the  night  conieth,  wherein  no  man  can  work. 

6.  All  true  work  is  sacred  ;  in  all  true  work,  were  it  but  true 
hand-labor,  there  i3  something  of  dlvmeness.  Labor,  wide  as 
the  earth,  has  its  summit  in  heaven.  Sweat  of  the  brow  ;  and 
up  from  that  to  sweat  of  the  brain,  sweat  of  the  heart  ;  which 
includes  all  Kepler2  calculations,  Newton3  meditations,  all  sci- 
ences, all  spoken  epics,  all  acted  heroism,  martyrdoms — up  to 
that  "  agony  of  bloody  sweat,"  which  all  men  have  called  divine ! 
O  brother,  if  this  is  not  "  worship,"  then  I  say,  the  more  pit v 
for  worship  ;  for  this  is  the  noblest  thing  yet  discovered  under 
God's  sky. 

7.  AYho  art  thou  that  complainest  of  thy  life  of  toil  ?  Com- 
plain not.  Look  up,  my  wearied  brother  ;  see  thy  fellow-work- 
men there,  in  God's  eternity  ;  surviving  there,  they  alone  surviv- 
ing :  sacred  band  of  the  immortals,  celestial  body-guard  of  the 
empire  of  mind.  Even  in  the  weak  human  memory  they  sur- 
vive so  long,  as  saints,  as  heroes,  as  gods  ;  they  alone  surviving  : 

1  Si'  nai,  a  mountain  of  Arabia  was  born  in  Lincolnshire,  England, 
Petraea,  famous  in  Scripture.  Height  December  25,  1642.  His  investiga- 
above  the  sea,  7,497  feet.  tions  have  completely  revolutionized 

2  John  Kepler,  a  distinguished  modern  science.  His  three  great 
mathematician  and  astronomer,  was  discoveries,  of  fluxions,  the  nature 
born  at  Wiel,  in  Wirtemberg,  on  the  of  light  and  colors,  and  the  laws  of 
21st  of  December,  1571,  and  died  gravitation,  have  given  him  a  nam<' 
November  5th,  o.  s..  1631.  which  will  last  as  long  as  civilization 

3  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  the  greatest  exists.  His  "  Principia  "unfolds  the 
of  philosophers  and  mathematicians,  theoryof  theuniverse.  He  died  in  172  7. 


202  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

peopling,  they  alone,  the  imnieasured  solitudes  of  Time !  To 
thee  Heaven,  though  severe,  is  not  unkind  ;  Heaven  is  kind — as 
a  noble  mother  ;  as  that  Spartan  mother,  saying  while  she  gave 
her  son  his  shield,  "  With  it,  my  son,  or  upon  it  !"  Thou,  too, 
shalt  return  home,  in  honor  to  thy  far-distant  home,  in  honor  ; 
doubt  it  not — if  in  the  battle  thou  keep  thy  shield !  Thou,  in 
the  eternities  and  deepest  death-kingdoms,  art  not  an  alien  ;l 
thou  everywhere  art  a  den'izen  !2  Complain  not ;  the  very  Spar- 
tans did  not  complain.  Carlyle. 

Tiiomas  Carltle,  the  eminent  essayist,  reviewer,  and  historian,  was  born  at 
Middlebic,  in  Dumfriesshire,  Scotland,  in  1796.  He  received  the  rudiments  of  a 
classical  education  at  a  school  in  Annan,  a  town  about  sixty  miles  south  of  Ed- 
inburgh. At  the  University  of  Edinburgh,  which  he  entered  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, he  was  distinguished  for  his  attainments  in  mathematics.  For  some  years 
after  leaving  the  universitj*,  he  supported  himself  by  teaching,  and  writing  for 
booksellers.  He  is  the  author  of  various  works  and  translations — "  Life  of  Schil- 
ler," "Sartor  Hesartus,"  1S36;  "The  French  Revolution,"  a  history  in  three 
volumes,  1S37;  " Chartism,"  1S39 ;  "Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays,"  from 
reviews  and  magazines,  in  5  vols.,  1839 ;  "  Hero  Worship,"  a  scries  of  lectures, 
1841;  "Past  and  Present,"  1843;  "Life  of  Oliver  Cromwell,"  "Latter-day 
Pamphlets,"  "Life  of  John  Sterling,"  &e.,  &c.  The  peculiar  style  and  diction 
of  Mr.  Carlyle  have  with  some  retarded,  and  with  others  advanced  his  popularity. 
It  is  more  German  than  English,  angular,  objective,  and  unidiomatic :  at  times, 
however,  highly  graphic,  and  swelling  out  into  periods  of  fine  imager}'  and  elo- 
quence. He  is  an  original  and  subtle  thinker,  and  combines  with  his  powers  of 
analysis  and  reasoning  a  vivid  and  brilliant  imagination.  His  opinions  and 
writings  tend  to  enlarge  our  sympathies  and  feelings — to  stir  the  heart  with 
benevolence  and  affection — to  unite  man  to  man — and  to  build  upon  this  love  of 
our  fellow-beings  a  system  of  mental  energy  and  purity  far  removed  from  the 
operations  of  sense,  and  pregnant  with  high  hopes  and  aspirations. 

III. 

52.     ADDRESS    TO    THE    INDOLENT. 

IS  not  the  field  with  lively  culture  green 
A  sight  more  joyous  than  the  dead  morass'? 
Do  not  the  skies,  with  active  e'ther  clean, 

And  fanned  by  sprightly  zephyrs,  far  surpass 
The  foul  November  fogs,  and  slumberous  mass, 
"With  which  sad  Nature  vails  her  drooping  face  ? 

Does  not  the  mountain-stream,  as  clear  as  glass, 
Gay  dancing  on,  the  putrid  pool  disgrace  ? — 
The  same  in  all  holds  true,  but  chief  in  human  race. 

*  Alien,  (&!'  yen),  a  foreigner  who  3  Den'  i  zen,  a  naturalized  for* 
has  not  been  naturalized  ;  a  stranger,    eiguer 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    INDOLENT.  203 

2.  It  was  not  by  vile  loitering  in  ease 

That  Greece  obtained  the  brighter  palm  of  art, 
That  soft  yet  ardent  Ath'ens  learnt  to  please, 

To  keen  the  wit,  and  to  sublime  the  heart, 

In  all  supreme  !  complete  in  every  part ! 
It  was  not  thence  majestic  Rome  arose, 

And  o'er  the  nations  shook  her  conquering  dart! 
For  sluggard's  brow  the  laurel  never  grows  ; 
Renown  is  not  the  child  of  indolent  repose. 

3.  Had  unambitious  mortals  minded  naught 

But  in  loose  joy  their  time  to  wear  away, — 
Had  they  alone  the  lap  of  dalliance  sought, 

Pleased  on  her  pillow  their  dull  heads  to  lay, — 

Rude  Nature's  state  had  been  our  state  to-day  : 
No  cities  e'er  their  towery  fronts  had  raised, 

No  arts  had  made  us  opulent  and  gay  ; 
"With  brother-brutes  the  human  race  had  grazed  ; 
None  e'er  had  soared  to  fame,  none  honored  been,  none  praised. 

4.  But  should  your  hearts  to  fame  unfeeling  be, 

If  right  I  read,  you  pleasure  all  require  : 
Then  see  how  best  may  be  obtained  this  fee, 

How  best  enjoyed  this,  nature's  wide  desire. 

Toil  and  be  glad!  let  In'dustry  inspire 
Into  your  quickened  limbs  her  buoyant  breath  ! 

Who  does  not  act  is  dead  ; — absorpt  entire 
In  miry  sloth,  no  pride,  no  joy  he  hath  : 
O  leaden-hearted  men,  to  be  in  love  with  death ! 

5.  Ah !  what  avail  the  largest  gifts  of  Heaven, 

"When  drooping  health  and  spirits  go  amiss? 
How  tasteless  then  whatever  can  be  given ! 

Health  is  the  vital  principle  of  bliss, 

And  exercise  of  health.     In  proof  of  this, 
Behold  the  wretch  who  slugs  his  life  away, 

Soon  swallowed  in  disease's  sad  abyss, 
"While  he  whom  toil  has  braced,  or  manly  play, 
Has  light  as  air  each  limb,  each  thought  as  clear  as  day. 

6.  O,  who  can  speak  the  vigorous  joy  of  health, — 

Unelogged  the  body,  unobseured  the  mind  ? 
The  morning  rises  gay,  with  pleasing  stealth, 


204  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

The  temperate  evening  falls  serene  and  kind. 

In  health  the  wiser  brutes  true  gladness  find 
See !  how  the  younglings  frisk  along  the  meads, 

As  May  comes  on,  and  wakes  the  balmy  wind  ; 
Rampant  with  life,  their  joy  all  joy  exceeds  ; 
Yet  what  but  high-strung  health  this  dancing  pleasaunce  breeds? 

7.  There  are,  I  see,  who  listen  to  my  lay, 

Who  wretched  sigh  for  virtue,  yet  despair. 
"  All  may  be  done,"  methinks  I  hear  them  say, 

"  Even  death  despised  by  generous  actions  fair, — 

All,  but  for  those  who  to  these  bowers  repair ! 
Their  every  power  dissolved  in  luxury, 

To  quit  of  torpid  sluggishness  the  lair, 
And  from  the  powerful  arms  of  sloth  get  free — 
'Tis  rising  from  the  dead  : — Alas ! — it  can  not  be !" 

8.  Would  you,  then,  learn  to  dissipate  the  band 

Of  these  huge  threatening  difficulties  dire, 
That  in  the  weak  man's  wav  like  lions  stand, 
His  soul  appall,  and  damp  his  rising  fire  ? 
Resolve — resolve !  and  to  be  men  aspire. 
Exert  that  noblest  privilege, — alone 

Here  to  mankind  indulged  ; — control  desire  : 
Let  godlike  Reason,  from  her  sovereign  throne, 
Speak  the  commanding  word,  I  will  ! — and  it  is  done. 

James  Thomson. 

IV. 

53.    STUDY. 

rjlHE  favorite  idea  of  a  genius  among  us,  is  of  one  who  never 
JL  studies,  or  who  studies,  nobody  can  tell  when — at  midnight, 
or  at  odd  times  and  intervals — and  now  and  then  strikes  out,  at 
a  heat,  as  the  phrase  is,  some  wonderful  production.  This  is  a 
character  that  has  figured  largely  in  the  history  of  our  literature, 
in  the  persons  of  our  Moldings,  our  Savages,1  and  our  Steeles 2 — 

1  Richard  Savage,  a  poet  of  con-  ■  Richard  Steele,  the  principal 
siderahle  merit,  born  1G99,  in  Lon-  author  of  the  "  Tattler,"  the  "  Spec- 
don,  died  1743.  He  was  intimate  tator,"  the  "  Guardian/'  and  other 
with  Johnson,  who  wrote  an  admir-  periodical  papers,  an  Irishman  by 
able  Life  of  him.  birth, born  in  1671. and  died  in  1729. 


STUDY.  205 

u  loose  fellows  about  town,"  or  loungers  in  the  country,  who  slept 
in  ale-houses  and  wrote  in  bar-rooms,  who  took  up  the  pen  as  a 
magician's '  wand  to  supply  their  wants,  and  when  the  pressure 
of  necessity  was  relieved,  resorted  again  to  their  carousals. 

2.  Your  real  genius  is  an  idle,  irregular,  vagabond  sort  of 
personage,  who  muses  in  the  fields  or  dreams  by  the  fireside  ; 
whose  strong  impulses — that  is  the  cant  of  it — must  needs  hurry 
him  into  wild  irregularities  or  foolish  eccentricity  ;  who  abhors 
order,  and  can  bear  no  restraint,  and  eschews  all  labor  :  such  a 
one,  for  instance,  as  Newton  or  Milton !  What !  they  must  have 
been  irregular,  else  they  were  no  geniuses ! 

3.  "The  young  man,"  it  is  often  said,  "has  genius  enough,  if 
he  would  only  study."  Now  the  truth  is,  as  I  shall  take  the 
liberty  to  state  it,  that  genius  will  study,  it  is  that  in  the  mind 
which  does  study  ;  that  is  the  very  nature  of  it.  I  care  not  to 
say  that  it  will  always  use  books.  All  study  is  not  reading,  any 
more  than  all  reading  is  study.  Study,  says  Cicero,5  is  the  vol- 
untary and  vigorous  application  of  the  mind  to  any  subject. 

4.  Such  study,  such  intense  mental  action,  and  nothing  else, 
is  genius.  And  so  far  as  there  is  any  native  predisposition  about 
this  enviable  character  of  mind,  it  is  a  predisposition  to  that 
action.  This  is  the  only  test  of  the  original  bias  ;  and  he  who 
does  not  come  to  that  point,  though  he  may  have  shrewdness, 
and  readiness,  and  parte,  never  had  a  genius. 

5.  No  need  to  waste  regrets  upon  him,  as  that  he  never  could 
be  induced  to  give  his  attention  or  study  to  any  thing  ;  he  nevei- 
had  that  which  he  is  supposed  to  have  lost.  For  attention  it  is 
— though  other  qualities  belong  to  this  transcendent3  power — 
attention  it  is,  that  is  the  very  soul  of  genius  :  not  the  fixed  eye, 
not  the  poiing  over  a  book,  but  the  fixed  thought.  It  is,  in 
fact,  an  action  of  the  mind  which  is  steadily  concentrated  upon 
one  ide'a  or  one  series  of  ideas, — which  collects  in  one  point  the 
rays  of  the  soul  till  they  search,  penetrate,  and  fire  the  whole 
train  of  its  thoughts. 

1  Magician,  (ma  jlsh' an),  one  who  of    Rome,   a    distinguished    orator, 

is  skilled  in  the  art  and   science  of  writer,  rhetorician,  and  philosopher, 

putting  into   action   the   power  of  born   at  Arpinum  in  B.  c.  106,  be- 

epirits  or  the  secret   operation   of  headed  b.  c.  43. 
natural  causes.  3  Trans  cend'  ent,     surpassing  ,• 

8  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero,  Consul  very  excellent. 


206  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

6.  And  while  the  fire  burns  within,  the  outward  man  may 
indeed  be  cold,  indifferent,  and  negligent, — absent  in  appear- 
ance ;  he  may  be  an  idler,  or  a  wanderer,  apparently  without 
aim  or  intent  ;  but  still  the  fire  burns  within.  And  what  though 
"  it  bursts  forth  "  at  length,  as  has  been  said,  "  like  volcanic  fires, 
with  spontaneous,  original,  native  force?"  It  only  shows  the 
intenser  action  of  the  elements  beneath.  "What  though  it  breaks 
like  lightning  from  the  cloud  ?  The  electric  fire  had  been  collect- 
ing in  the  firmament  through  many  a  silent,  calm,  and  clear  day. 

7.  What  though  the  might  of  genius  appears  in  one  decisive 
blow,  struck  in  some  moment  of  high  debate,  or  at  the  crisis  of 
a  nation's  peril?  That  mighty  energy,  though  it  may  have 
heaved  in  the  breast  of  a  Demosthenes,1  was  once  a  feeble  in- 
fant's thought.  A  mother's  eye  watched  over  its  dawning.  A 
father's  care  guarded  its  early  growth.  It  soon  trod  with  youth- 
ful steps  the  halls  of  learning,  and  found  other  fathers  to  wake 
and  to  watch  for  it, — even  as  it  finds  them  here. 

8.  It  went  on  ;  but  silence  was  upon  its  path,  and  the  deep 
stragglings  of  the  inward  soul  marked  its  progress,  and  the 
cherishing  powers  of  nature  silently  ministered  to  it.  The  ele- 
ments around  breathed  upon  it  and  "  touched  it  to  finer  issues." 
The  golden  ray  of  heaven  fell  upon  it,  and  ripened  its  expand- 
ing faculties.  The  slow  revolutions  of  years  slowly  added  to 
its  collected  treasures  and  energies  ;  till  in  its  hour  of  glory,  it 
stood  forth  embodied  in  the  form  of  living,  commanding,  irre- 
sistible eloquence ! 

9.  The  world  wonders  at  the  manifestation,  and  says, "  Strange, 
strange,  that  it  should  come  thus  unsought,  unpremeditated,  un- 
prepared!" But  the  truth  is,  there  is  no  more  a  miracle  in  it, 
than  there  is  in  the  towering  of  the  preeminent  forest-tree,  or  in 
the  flowing  of  the  mighty  and  irresistible  river,  or  in  the  wealth 
and  the  waving  of  the  boundless  harvest.  Dewey. 

Ouville  Dewey,  D.D.,  was  born  in  Sheffield,  Berkshire  County,  Massachu- 
setts, March  28th,  1794.  His  father  ■was  a  farmer,  occupying  a  highly  respecta- 
ble position  as  a  citizen.  He  entered  Williams  College,  in  his  native  county,  at 
the  age  of  seventeen,  where  he  gained  a  high  position.  He  was  thorough  in  all 
his  studies.    Rhetoric  he  cultivated  with  uncommon  perseverance.     He  was 

critical  and  severe  upon  his  own  literary  productions,  revising  and  pruning  with 

__^ *. ^ . , 

1  De  mos'  the  nes,  the  greatest  of  His  orations  present  to  us  the  mod- 
Greek  orators,  was  born  at  Athens,  els  which  approach  the  nearest  to 
B.  c.  382,  and  died  b.  C.  about  o22.    perfection  of  all  human  productions. 


LETTERS.  207 

a  fidelity  which  gained  him  preeminence  in  his  cla-s,  as  already  attaining  a 
style  of  classic  strength  and  purity,  lie  was  graduated  in  1*14,  with  the  higl 
honors  of  the  institution,  having  received  the  appointment  of  Valedictorian.  He 
pursued  his  professional  studies  at  Andover  Theological  Seminary.  In  1^:J  he 
received  and  accepted  a  call  to  become  pastor  of  a  Unitarian  Church  in  New- 
Bedford,  where  he  remained  ten  years.  During  this  period  he  lectured  frequently, 
and  wrote  for  the  press.  He  lirst  visited  Europe  for  the  improvement  of  his 
health  in  June,  1833,  where  he  spent  a  year.  After  his  return,  lie  published 
some  results  of  his  travels  in  a  volume  entitled,  "The  Old  World  and  the  New.'' 
This  book  contains  some  of  the  best  criticisms  on  painting,  on  music,  on  sculp- 
ture, on  men,  things,  and  places  ;  and  more  than  all,  views  of  society,  of  govern- 
ment, of  the  tendency  of  monarchical  institutions,  and  of  the  condition  of  the 
European  people,  which  arc  sound,  comprehensive,  and  deeply  interesting.  On 
his  return  from  Europe  he  was  settled  over  "The  Second  Congregational  Unita- 
rian Society"  of  New  York.  In  1842  he  again  went  abroad  for  his  health,  taking 
his  family  with  him.  He  passed  two  years  in  France,  Italy,  Switzerland,  and 
England.  In  1848,  his  health  again  failing,  he  dissolved  his  connection  with  his 
church.  Since  that  time  he  has  occasionally  preached  and  lectured  in  nearly  all 
the  large  cities  of  the  Union.  All,  except  his  late  writings,  arc  bound  in  one 
volume,  published  at  London,  in  1844.  His  productions  since  that  period  are 
published  in  New  York,  in  three  volumes,  except  his  latest,  "The  Problem  of 
Human  Destiny,"  which  appeared  in  1804.  Dr.  Dewey  has  gnat  depth  of 
thought.  His  imagination  is  rich,  but  not  superfluous ;  ready,  but  not  obtrusive. 
His  style  is  artistic  and  scholarly.  His  periods  are  perfectly  complete  and 
rounded,  yet  tilled  by  the  thought;  the  variety  is  great,  yet  a  symmetry  pre- 
vails ;  and  in  general  we  find  that  harmony  between  the  thoughts  and  their 
form  which  should  always  obtain. 


SECTION    X. 
I. 

54.     LETTERS. 


BLESSED  be  letters! — they  are  the  monitors,  they  are  also 
the  eomforters,  and  they  are  the  only  true  heart-talkers. 
Your  speech,  and  their  speeches,  are  conventional ;  they  are 
molded  by  circumstances  ;  they  are  suggested  by  the  observa- 
tion, remark,  and  influence  of  the  parties  to  whom  the  speaking 
is  addressed,  or  by  whom  it  may  be  overheard.  Your  truest 
thought  is  modified  half  through  its  utteranco  by  a  look,  a  sign, 
a  smile,  or  a  sneer.  It  is  not  individual :  it  is  not  integral  :  it 
is  social  and  mixed, — half  of  you,  and  half  of  others.  It  bends, 
it  sways,  it  multiplies,  it  retires,  and  it  advances,  as  the  talk  of 
others  presses,  relaxes,  or  quickens. 

2.  But  it  is  not  so  with  Letters  : — there  you  are,  with  only 


208  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

the  soulless  pen,  and  the  snow-white,  virgin  paper.  Your  soul 
is  measuring  itself  by  itself,  and  saying  its  own  sayings  :  there 
are  no  sneers  to  modify  its  utterance, — no  scowl  to  scare  ; 
nothing  is  present  but  you  and  your  thought.  Utter  it  then 
freely — write  it  down — stamp  it — burn  it  in  the  ink ! — There  it 
is,  a  true  soul-print ! 

3.  Oh,  the  glory,  the  freedom,  the  passion  of  a  letter !  It  is 
worth  all  the  lip-talk  of  the  world.  Do  you  say,  it  is  studied, 
made  up,  acted,  rehearsed,  contrived,  artistic?  Let  me  see  it 
then  ;  let  me  run  it  over  :  tell  me  age,  sex,  cir'cuinstances,  and  I 
will  tell  you  if  it  be  studied  or  real ;  if  it  be  the  merest  lip-slang 
j)ut  into  words,  or  heart-talk  blazing  on  the  paper. 

4.  I  have  a  little  packet,  not  Very  large,  tied  up  with  narrow 
crimson  ribbon,  now  soiled  with  frequent  handling,  which  far 
into  some  winter's  night  I  take  down  from  its  nook  upon  my 
shelf,  and  untie,  and  open,  and  run  over,  with  such  sorrow  and 
such  joy,  such  tears  and  such  smiles,  as  I  am  sure  make  me,  for 
weeks  after,  a  kinder  and  holier  man. 

5.  There  are  in  this  little  packet  letters  in  the  familiar  hand 
of  a  mother  :  what  gentle  admonition — what  tender  affection ! 
God  have  mercy  on  him  who  outlives  the  tears  that  such  ad- 
monitions and  such  affection  c?4i  up  to  the  eye !  There  are 
others  in  the  budget,  in  the  delicate  and  unformed  hand  of  a 
loved  and  lost  sister ; — written  when  she  and  you  were  full  of 
glee,  and  the  best  mirth  of  youthfuiness  :  does  it  harm  you  to 
recall  that  mirthfulncss  ?  or  to  trace  again,  for  the  hundredth 
time,  that  scrawling  postscript  at  the  bottom,  with  its  i's  so 
carefully  dotted,  and  its  gigantic  t's  ?o  carefully  crossed,  by  the 
childish  hand  of  a  little  brother  ? 

6.  I  have  added  latterly  to  that  packet  of  letters  :  I  almost 
need  a  new  and  longer  ribbon  ;  the  old  one  is  getting  too  short. 
Not  a  few  of  these  new  and  cherished  letters,  a  former  Reverie 
has  brought  to  me  ;  not  letters  of  cold  praise,  saying  it  was  well 
done,  artfully  executed,  prettily  imagined — no  such  thing  ;  but 
letters  of  sympathy — of  sympathy  which  means  sympathy. 

7.  It  would  be  cold  and  dastardly  work  to  copy  them  ;  I  am 
too  selfish  for  that.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  they,  the  kind 
writers,  have  seen  a  heart  in  tho  Reverie — have  felt  that  it  was 
real,  true.  They  know  it :  a  secret  influence  has  told  it.  "What 
matters  it,  pray,  if  literally  there  was  no  wifo,  and  no  dead  child, 


LETTERS.  209 

and  no  coffin,  in  the  house  ?  Is  not  feeling,  feeling  ;  and  heart, 
heart  ?  Are  not  these  fancies  thronging  on  my  brain,  bringing 
tears  to  my  eyes,  bringing  joy  to  my  soul,  as  living  as  any  thing 
human  can  be  living  ?  What  if  they  have  no  material  type — no 
objective  form  ?  All  that  is  crude, — a  mere  reduction  of  ideality 
to  sense — a  transformation  of  the  spiritual  to  the  earthy — a 
leveling  of  soul  to  matter. 

8.  Are  we  not  creatures  of  thought  and  passion  ?  Is  any 
thing  about  us  more  earnest  than  that  same  thought  and  passion  ? 
Is  there  any  thing  more  real, — more  characteristic  of  that  great 
and  dim  destiny  to  which  we  are  born,  and  which  may  be  writ- 
ten down  in  that  terrible  word — Foeever  ?  Let  those  who  will, 
then,  sneer  at  what  in  their  wisdom  they  call  untruth — at  what 
is  false,  because  it  has  no  material  presence  :  this  does  not  create 
falsity  ;  would  to  Heaven  that  it  did ! 

9.  And  yet,  if  there  was  actual,  material  truth,  superadded  to 
Reverie,  would  such  objectors  sympathize  the  more  ?  No ! — a 
thousand  times,  no  ;  the  heart  that  has  no  sympathy  with 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  scorch  the  soul,  is  dead  also — what- 
ever its  mocking  tears  and  gestures  may  say — to  a  coffin  or  a 
grave !  Let  them  pass,  and  we  will  come  back  to  these  cher- 
ished letters. 

10.  A  mother  who  has  lost  a  child,  has.  she  says,  shed  a  tear 
■ — not  one,  but  many — over  the  dead  boy's  coldness.  And 
another,  who  has  not,  but  who  trembles  lest  she  lose,  has  found 
the  words  failing  as  she  reads,  and  a  dim,  sorrow-borne  mist 
spreading  over  the  page.  Another,  yet  rejoicing  in  all  those 
family  ties  that  make  life  a  charm,  has  listened  nervously  to 
careful  reading,  until  the  husband  is  called  home,  and  the  coffin 
is  in  the  house — "  Stop  !"  she  says  ;  and  a  gush  of  tears  tells  the 
rest.  Yet  the  cold  critic  will  say — "It  was  artfully  done."  A 
curse  on  him !  it  was  not  art ;  it  was  nature. 

11  Another,  a  young,  fresh,  healthful  girl-mind,  has  seen 
something  in  the  love-picture — albeit  so  weak — of  truth  ;  and 
has  kindly  believed  that  it  must  be  earnest.  Ay,  indeed  is  it, 
fair  and  generous  one, — earnest  as  life  and  hope !  AVho,  indeed, 
with  a  heart  at  all,  that  has  not  yet  slipped  away  irrep'arably 
and  forever  from  the  shores  of  youth — from  that  fairy-land 
which  young  enthusiasm  creates,  and  over  which  bright  dreams 
hover — but  knows  it  to  be  real?     And  so  such  things  will  be 


210  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

real,  till  hopes  are  dashed,  and  Death  is  come.  Another,  a 
father,  has  laid  down  the  book  in  tears. — God  bless  them  all! 
How  far  better  this,  than  the  cold  praise  of  newspaper  para- 
graphs, or  the  critically  contrived  approval  of  colder  friends ! 

12.  Let  me  gather  up  these  letters  carefully, — to  be  read 
when  the  heart  is  faint,  and  sick  of  all  that  there  is  unreal  and 
selfish  in  the  world.  Let  me  tie  them  together,  with  a  new, 
and  longer  bit  of  ribbon, — not  by  a  love  knot,  that  is  too  hard 
— but  by  an  easy  slipping  knot,  that  so  I  may  get  at  them  the 
better.  And  now  they  are  all  together,  a  snug  packet,  and  we 
will  label  them,  not  sentimentally  (I  pity  the  one  who  thinks  it), 
but  earnestly,  and  in  the  best  meaning  of  the  term — Remem- 

BKA.NCEKS    OF    THE   HEART.  D.  G.  MITCHELL. 

II. 

53.  SELECT  PASSAGES  IN  PROSE. 

I.  GOOD  USE  OF  MEMORY. 

I  CAN  not  too  strongly  urge  upon  the  young  the  advantage 
of  committing  to  memory  the  choicest  passages  in  prose  and 
poetry  in  English  literature.  What  we  learn  thoroughly  when 
young,  remains  by  us  through  life.  "  Sir,"  said  the  great  Dr. 
Johnson  to  Boswell,1  "in  my  early  days  I  read  very  hard.  It  is 
a  sad  reflection,  but  a  true  one,  that  I  knew  almost  as  much  at 
eighteen  as  I  do  now.  My  judgment,  to  be  sure,  was  not  so 
good  ;  but  I  had  all  the  facts.  I  remember  very  well  when  I 
was  at  Oxford,  an  old  gentleman  said  to  me,  '  Young  man,  ply 
your  book  diligently  now,  and  acquire  a  stock  of  knowledge  ; 
for  when  years  come  unto  you,  you  will  find  that  poring  upon 
books  will  be  but  an  irksome  task.'  " 

II.    INJUDICIOUS    HASTE    IN    STUDY.— Locke.' 

The  eagerness  and  strong  bent  of  the  mind  after  knowledge, 
if  not  warily  regulated,  is  often  a  hinderance  to  it.  It  still 
presses  into  further  discoveries  and  new  objects,  and  catches  at 

1  James  Boswell,  the  friend  and  celebrated  "  Essay  Concerning  the 

biographer    of    Dr.    Johnson,   born  Human  Understanding,"  was  born 

1740,  and  died  1795.  at  Wrington,  near  Bristol,  England, 

3  John  Locke,  a  name  than  which  on  the   29th  of  August,  1G32,   and 

there  is  none  higher  in  English  phil-  died  at  Oates,  in  Essex,  on  the  28th 

osophical  literature,  author  of  the  of  October,  1704. 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    PROSE.  211 

the  variety  of  knowledge,  and  therefore  often  stays  not  long 
enough  on  what  is  before  it,  to  look  into  it  as  it  should,  for  haste 
to  pursue  what  is  yet  out  of  sight.  He  that  rides  post  through 
a  country  may  be  able,  from  the  transient  view,  to  tell  in  general 
how  the  parts  he,  and  may  be  able  to  give  some  loose  descrip- 
tion of  here  a  mountain  and  there  a  plain,  here  a  morass'  and 
there  a  river  ;  woodland  in  one  part  and  savannas  in  another. 
Such  superficial  ideas  and  observations  as  these  he  may  collect 
in  galloping  over  it ;  but  the  more  useful  observations  of  the 
soil,  plants,  animals,  and  inhabitants,  with  their  several  sorts  and 
properties,  must  necessarily  escape  him  ;  and  it  is  seldom  men 
ever  discover  the  rich  mines  without  some  digging.  Nature 
commonly  lodges  her  treasures  and  jewels  in  rocky  ground.  If 
the  matter  be  knotty,  and  the  sense  lies  deep,  the  mind  must 
stop  and  buckle  to  it,  and  stick  upon  it  with  labor,  and  thought, 
and  close  contemplation,  and  not  leave  it  until  it  has  mastered 
the  difficulty  and  got  possession  of  truth. 

But  here,  care  must  be  taken  to  avoid  the  other  extreme  :  a 
man  must  not  stick  at  every  useless  nicety,  and  expect  mysteries 
of  science  in  every  trivial  question  or  scrapie  that  he  may  raise. 
He  that  will  stand  to  pick  up  and  examine  every  pebble  that 
comes  in  his  way,  is  as  unlikely  to  return  enriched  and  laded 
with  jewels,  as  the  other  that  traveled  full  speed.  Truths  are 
not  the  better  nor  the  worse  for  their  obviousness  or  difficulty, 
but  their  value  is  to  be  measured  by  their  usefulness  and  ten- 
dency. Insignificant  observations  should  not  take  up  any  of  our 
minutes  ;  and  those  that  enlarge  our  view,  and  give  light  toward 
further  and  useful  discoveries,  should  not  be  neglected,  though 
they  stop  our  course,  and  spend  some  of  our  time  in  a  fixed 

attention. 

III.    STUDIES.— Bacon.' 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for  ability.  Their 
chief  use  for  delight  is  in  piivateness  and  retiring  ;  for  orna- 

1  Francis  Bacon,  Lord  Chancellor  ment  of  labor,  or  species  of  activity, 

of  England  under  James  I.,  author  belonged  to  him  peculiarly.     From 

of    the   "  Instauratio   Magna,"    was  early  manhood  Bacon  was  immersed 

born  in  London  on  22d  of  January,  in  public  affairs,  intrusted  with  very 

1561,  and  died  in  162G.     The  immor-  onerous  functions  :  in  the  first  rank 

tal  Englishman  possessed  a  mind  so  of  jurisconsult,  he  moved  in  the  work 

vast,  with  powers  so  varied,  that  it  of  reforming  and  arranging  the  laws 

can  not  be  said  that  any  one  depart-  of  England  ;  as  a  statesman,  he  la- 


212  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

raent,  is  in  discourse  ;  and  for  ability,  is  in  the  judgment  and 
disposition  of  business  ;  for  expert  men  can  execute,  and  per- 
haps judge  of  particulars,  one  by  cno  ;  but  the  general  counsels, 
and  the  plots  and  marshaling  of  affairs,  come  best  from  those 
that  are  learned.  To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies,  is  sloth  ; 
to  use  them  too  much  for  ornament,  is  affectation  ;  to  make  judg- 
ment wholly  by  their  rules,  is  the  humor  of  a  scholar  :  they  per'- 
feet  nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experience — for  natural  abili- 
ties are  like  natural  plants,  that  need  pruning  by  study  ;  and 
studies  themselves  do  give  forth  directions  too  much  at  large, 
except  they  be  bounded  in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn 
studies,  simple  men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use  them  ;  for 
they  teach  not  their  own  use  ;  but  that  is  a  wisdom  without 
them,  and  above  them,  won  by  observation. 

Head  not  to  contradict  and  confute,  nor  to  believe  and  take 
for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  discourse,  but  to  weigh  and 
consider.  Some  books  are  to  be  tasted,  others  to  be  swallowed, 
and  some  few  to  be  chewed  and  digested  :  that  is,  some  books 
are  to  be  read  only  in  parts  ;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  curi- 
ously ;  and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly,  and  with  diligence  and 
attention.  Some  books  also  may  be  read  by  deputy,  and  extracts 
made  of  them  by  others  ;  but  that  would  be  only  in  the  less 
important  arguments,  and  the  meaner  sort  of  books  ;  else  dis- 
tilled books  are,  like  common  distilled  waters,  flashy  things. 
Reading  maketh  a  full  man,  conference  a  ready  man,  and 
writing  an  exact  man  :  and,  therefore,  if  a  man  write  little, 
he  had  need  have  a  great  memory ;  if  he  confer  little,  he  need 
have  a  present  wit ;  and  if  he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much , 
cunning,  to  seem  to  know  that  he  doth  not. 

IV.     BOOKS.— ClIANNING. 

It  is  chiefly  through  books  that  we  enjoy  inter  course  with 
superior  minds,  and  these  invaluable  means  of  communication 
are  in  the  reach  of  all.  In  the  best  books  great  men  talk  to  us, 
give  us  their  most  precious  thoughts,  and  pour  their  souls  into 
ours.  God  bo  thanked  for  books.  They  are  the  voices  of  "the 
distant  and  the  dead,  and  make  us  heirs  of  the  spiritual  life  of 

bored  effectively  in  promotion  of  tho  viz.,  the  "  Reign  of  Henry  VII.  ;"  as 

British  treaty  of  Union  ;    as  a  his-  orator  and  Avriter,  he  had  no  equal 

torian,  ho  produced  the  first  nierito-  in  his  age  ;  nm\, besides,  he  renovated 

rious  history  in  English  literature,  Philosophy. 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    PROSE.  2L3 

past  ages.  Books  are  the  true  levelers.  They  give  to  all,  who 
will  faithfully  use  them,  the  society,  the  spiritual  presence  of  the 
best  and  greatest  of  our  race.  No  matter  how  poor  I  am, — no 
matter  though  the  prosperous  of  my  own  time  will  not  enter  my 
obscure  dwelling, — if  the  sacred  writers  will  enter  and  take  up 
their  abode  under  my  roof,  if  Milton  will  cross  my  threshold  to 
sing  to  me  of  Paradise,  and  Shakspeare  to  open  to  me  the 
worlds  of  imagination  and  the  workings  of  the  human  heart,  and 
Franklin '  to  enrich  me  with  his  practical  wisdom,  I  shall  not 
pine  for  want  of  intellectual  companionship,  and  I  may  become 
a  cultivated  man,  though  excluded  from  what  is  called  the  best 
society  in  the  place  where  I  live. 

V.    THE   BIBLE.— Hall.' 

The  Bible  is  the  treasure  of  the  poor,  the  solace  of  the  sick, 
and  the  support  of  the  dying  ;  and  while  other  books  may 
amuse  and  instruct  in  a  leisure  hour,  it  is  the  peculiar  triumph 
of  that  book  to  create  light  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  to  allevi- 
ate the  sorrow  which  admits  of  no  other  alleviation,  to  direct  a 
beam  of  hope  to  the  heart  which  no  other  topic  of  consolation 
can  reach  ;  while  guilt,  despair,  and  death  vanish  at  the  touch 
of  its  holy  inspiration. 

There  is  something  in  the  spirit  and  diction  of  the  Bible 
which  is  found  peculiarly  adapted  to  arrest  the  attention  of  the 
plainest  and  most  uncultivated  minds.  The  simple  structure  of 
its  sentences,  combined  with  a  lofty  spirit  of  poetry — its  famil- 
iar allusions  to  the  scenes  of  nature  and  the  transactions  of 
common  life — the  delightful  intermixture  of  narration  with  the 
doctrinal  and  preceptive  parts — and  the  profusion  of  inlrac'ulous 
facts,  which  convert  it  into  a  sort  of  enchanted  ground — its 
constant  advertence  to  the  Deity,  whoso  perfections  it  renders 
almost  visible  and  palpable — unite  in  bsstowing  upon  it  an  in'- 
terest  which  attaches  to  no  other  performance,  and  which,  after 

1  Benjamin  Franklin,  on  eminent  various   erudition,  and  a  thorough 

American  moralist,   statesman,  and  intellectual  training ;  master  alike  of 

philosopher,    was    born   in   Boston,  the  sternest  weapons  of  logic,  and 

Mass.,  January  Gth,   1  TOG,  and  died  "  the  dazzling  fence  of  rhetoric;"  in 

in  Philadelphia,  April  17th,  1790.  style,   combining   the,   sweetness  of 

5  Robert  Hall,  an  eminent  Baptist  Addison  with  the  sublimity  of  Burke; 

clergyman,    was    born    at    Arnsby,  he  was  regarded  as  the  most  eloquent 

England,  in  1764.     Splendid,  grace-  preacher  of  modern  times.     He  died 

fill,  and  majestic,  with  a  large  and  in  February,  1831. 


214  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

assiduous  and  repeated  perusal,  invests  it  with  much  of  the  charm 
of  novelty  ;  like  the  great  orb  of  day,  at  which  we  are  wont 1  to 
gaze  with  unabated  astonishment  from  infancy  to  old  age. 

What  other  book  besides  the  Biole  could  be  heard  in  public 
assemblies  from  year  to  year,  with  an  attention  that  never  tires, 
and  an  interest  that  never  cloys  ?  With  few  exceptions,  let  a 
portion  of  the  sacred  volume  be  recited  in  a  mixed  multitude, 
and  though  it  has  been  heard  a  thousand  times,  a  universal 
stillness  ensues,  every  eye  is  fixed,  and  every  ear  is  awake  and 
attentive.  Select,  if  you  can,  any  other  composition,  and  let  it 
be  rendered  equally  familiar  to  the  mind,  and  see  whether  it 
will  produce  this  effect. 

in. 

56.     BUYING    BOOKS. 

HOW  easily  one  may  distinguish  a  genuine  lover  of  books 
from  the  worldly  man !  With  what  subdued  and  yet  glow- 
ing enthusiasm  does  he  gaze  upon  the  costly  front  of  a  thousand 
embattled  volumes !  How  gently  he  draws  them  down,  as  if 
they  were  little  children !  how  tenderly  he  handles  them !  He 
peers  at  the  title-page,  at  the  text,  or  the  notes,  with  the  nicety 
of  a  bird  examining  a  flower.  He  studies  the  binding  :  the 
leather, — Russia,  English  calf,  morocco  ;  the  lettering,  the  gild- 
ing, the  edging,  the  hinge  of  the  cover  !  He  opens  it,  and  shuts 
it,  he  holds  it  off,  and  brings  it  nigh.  It  suffuses  his  whole  body 
with  book-magnetism.  He  walks  up  and  down,  in  amaze  at 
the  mysterious  allotments  of  Providence  that  gives  so  much 
money  to  men  who  spend  it  upon  their  appetites,  and  so  little 
to  men  who  would  spend  it  in  benevolence,  or  upon  their  refined 
tastes !  It  is  astonishing,  too,  how  one's  necessities  multiply  in 
the  presence  of  the  supply.  One  never  knows  how  many  things 
it  is  impossible  to  do  without  till  he  goes  to  the  house-furnishing 
stores.  One  is  surprised  to  perceive,  at  some  bazaar,  or  fancy 
and  variety  store,  how  many  conveniences  he  needs.  He  is  sat- 
isfied that  his  life  must  have  been  utterly  inconvenient  aforetime. 
And  thus,  too,  one  is  inwardly  convicted,  at  a  bookstore,  of 
having  lived  for  years  without  books  which  he  is  now  satisfied 
that  one  can  not  live  without ! 


1  Wont,  (v/unt),  used  ;  accustomed. 


BUYING    BOOKS.  215 


•  ) 


2.  Then,  too,  the  subtle  process  by  which  the  man  convinces 

himself  that  he  can  afford  to  buy.  No  subtle  manager  or  1  >r<  >ker 
ever  saw  through  a  maze  of  financial  embarrassmi  uts  half  so 
quick  as  a  poor  book-buyer  sees  his  way  clear  to  pay  for  what 
he  must  have.  He  promises  with  himself  marvels  of  retrench- 
ment ;  he  will  eat  less,  or  less  costly  viands,  that  he  may  buy 
more  food  for  the  mind.  He  will  take  an  extra  patch,  and  go 
on  with  his  raiment  another  year,  and  buy  books  instead  of 
coats.  Yea,  he  will  write  books,  that  he  may  buy  books.  He 
will  lecture,  teach,  trade — he  will  do  any  honest  thing  for  mom  y 
to  buy  books ! 

3.  The  appetite  is  insatiable.  Feeding  does  not  satisfy  it.  It 
rages  by  the  fuel  which  is  put  upon  it.  As  a  hungry  man  rats 
first,  and  pays  afterward,  so  the  book-buyer  purchases,  and  then 
works  at  the  debt  afterward.  This  paying  is  rather  medicinal. 
It  cures  for  a  time.  But  a  relapse  takes  place.  The  same  long- 
ing, the  same  promises  of  self-denial.  He  promises  himself  to 
put  spurs  on  both  heels  of  his  in'dustry  ;  and  then,  besides  all 
this,  he  will  somehow  get  along  when  the  time  for  payment 
comes  !  Ah  !  this  Somehow  !  That  word  is  as  big  as  a  whole 
world,  and  is  stuffed  with  all  the  vaga'ries  and  fantasies  that 
Fancy  ever  bred  upon  Hope. 

4.  And  yet,  is  there  not  some  comfort  in  buying  books,  to  be 
paid  for  ?  We  have  heard  of  a  sot,  who  wished  his  neck  as  long 
as  the  worm  of  a  still,  that  he  might  so  much  the  longer  enjoy 
the  flavor  of  the  draught !  Thus,  it  is  a  prolonged  excitement 
of  purchase,  if  you  feel  for  six  months  in  a  slight  doubt  whether 
the  book  is  honestly  your  own  or  not.  Had  you  paid  down, 
that  would  have  been  the  end  of  it.  There  would  have  been  no 
affectionate  and  beseeching  look  of  your  books  at  you,  every 
time  you  saw  them,  saying,  as  plain  as  a  book's  eyes  can  say. 
"Do  not  let  me  be  taken  from  you." 

5.  Moreover,  buying  books  before  you  can  pay  for  them,  pro- 
motes caution.  You  do  not  feel  quite  at  liberty  to  take  them 
home.  You  are  married.  Your  wife  keeps  an  account-book. 
She  knows  to  a  penny  what  you  can  and  what  you  can  not  afford. 
She  has  no  "  speculation  "  in  her  eyes.  Plain  figures  make  des- 
perate work  with  airy  "somehows".  It  is  a  matter  of  no  small 
skill  and  experience  to  get  your  books  home,  and  into  their 
proper  places,  undiscovered.     Perhaps  the  blundering  Express 


216  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

brings  tliem  to  the  door  just  at  evening.  "  What  is  it,  my  deal*  ?" 
she  says  to  you.  "  Oh  !  nothing — a  few  books  that  I  can  not 
do  without." 

6.  That  smile !  A  true  housewife  that  loves  her  husband,  can 
smile  a  whole  arithmetic  at  him  in  one  look !  Of  course  she 
insists,  in  the  kindest  way,  in  sympathizing  with  you  in  your 
literary  acquisition.  She  cuts  the  strings  of  the  bundle  (and  of 
your  heart),  and  out  comes  the  whole  story.  You  have  bought 
a  complete  set  of  costly  English  books,  full  bound  in  calf,  extra 
gilt !  You  are  caught,  and  feel  very  much  as  if  bound  in  calf 
yourself,  and  admirably  lettered. 

7.  Now,  this  must  not  happen  frequently.  The  books  must 
be  smuggled  home.  Let  them  be  sent  to  some  near  place.  Then, 
when  your  wife  has  a  headache,  or  is  out  making  a  call,  or  has 
lain  down,  run  the  books  across  the  frontier  and  threshold,  hastily 
undo  them,  stop  only  for  one  loving  glance  as  you  put  them  away 
in  the  closet,  or  behind  other  books  on  the  shelf,  or  on  the  top- 
most shelf.  Clear  away  the  twine  and  wrapping-paper,  and  every 
suspicious  circumstance.  Be  very  careful  not  to  be  too  kind. 
That  often  brings  on  detection.  Only  the  other  day  we  heard 
it  said,  somewhere,  "Why,  how  good  you  have  been,  lately.  I 
am  really  afraid  that  you  have  been  carrying  on  mischief 
secretly."  Our  heart  smote  us.  It  was  a  fact.  That  very  day 
we  had  bought  a  few  books  which  "  we  could  not  do  without." 

8.  After  a  while,  you  can  bring  out  one  volume,  accidentally, 
and  leave  it  on  the  table.  "  Why,  my  dear,  what  a  beautiful 
book !  Where  did  you  borrow  it '?"  You  glance  over  the  news- 
paper, with  the  quietest  tone  you  can  command  :  "  Tliat !  oh ! 
that  is  mine.  Have  you  not  seen  it  before  ?  It  has  been  in  the 
house  these  two  months  ; "  and  you  rush  on  with  anecdote  and 
incident,  and  point  out  the  binding,  and  that  peculiar  trick  of 
gilding,  and  every  thing  else  you  can  think  of  :  but  it  all  will 
not  do  ;  you  can  not  rub  out  that  roguish,  arithmetical  smile. 
People  may  talk  about  the  equality  of  the  sexes  !  They  are  not 
equal.  The  silent  smile  of  a  sensible,  loving  woman,  will  van- 
quish ten  men.  Of  course  you  repent,  and  in  time  form  a  habit 
of  repenting. 

9.  Another  method,  which  will  bo  found  peculiarly  effective, 
is,  to  make  a  present  of  some  fine  work  to  your  wife.  Of  course, 
whether  she  or  you  have  the  name  of  buying  it,  it  will  go  into 


SELECTED    EXTRACTS.  017 

your  collection  and  be  yours  to  all  intents  and  purposes.  But, 
it  stops  remark  in  the  presentation.  A  wife  could  not  reprove 
you  for  so  kindly  thinking  of  her.  No  matter  what  she  suspects, 
she  will  say  nothing.  And  then  if  there  are  three  or  four  more 
works,  which  have  come  home  with  the  gift-book — they  will 
pass,  through  the  favor  of  the  other. 

10.  These  are  pleasures  denied  to  wealth  and  old  bachelors. 
Indeed,  one  can  not  imagine  the  peculiar  pleasure  of  buying 
books,  if  one  is  rich  and  stupid.  There  must  be  some  pleasure, 
or  so  many  would  not  do  it.  But  the  full  flavor,  the  whole  rel- 
ish of  delight  only  comes  to  those  who  are  so  poor  that  they 
must  engineer  for  every  book.  They  set  down  before  them,  and 
besiege  them.  They  are  captured.  Each  book  has  a  secret 
history  of  ways  and  means.  It  reminds  you  of  subtle  devices 
by  which  you  insured  and  made  it  yours,  in  spite  of  poverty  I 

II.  W.  Beeches. 

IV. 

57.     SELECTED    EXTRACTS. 

ALL  novels  whatever,  the  best  equally  with  the  worst,  have 
faded  almost  with  the  generation  that  produced  them. 
This  is  a  curse  written  as  a  superscription  above  the  whole  class. 
The  modes  of  combining  characters,  the  particular  objects 
selected  for  sympathy,  the  diction,  and  often  the  manners,  hold 
up  an  imperfect  mirror  to  any  generation  that  is  not  their  own. 
And  the  reader  of  novels  belonging  to  an  obsolete  era,  whilst 
acknowledging  the  skill  of  the  groupings,  or  the  beauty  of  the 
situations,  misses  the  echo  to  that  particular  revelation  of  human 
nature  which  has  met  him  in  the  social  aspects  of  his  own  day ; 
or  too  often  ho  is  perplexed  by  an  expression  which,  having 
dropped  into  a  lower  use,  disturbs  the  unity  of  the  impression, 
or  is  revolted  by  a  coarse  sentiment,  which  increasing  refine- 
ment has  made  unsuitable  to  the  sex  or  to  the  rank  of  the 

character. 

2.  Too  constantly,  when  reviewing  his  own  efforts  for  improve- 
ment, a  man  has  reason  to  say  (indignantly,  as  one  injured  by 
others  ;  penitentially,  as  contributing  to  this  injury  himself,) 
"Much  of  my  studies  have  been  thrown  away;   many  books 

which  were  useless,  or  worse  than  useless,  I  have  read  ;  manv 

10 


218  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

books  which  ought  to  have  been  read,  I  have  left  unread  ;  such 
is  the  sad  necessity  under  the  absence  of  all  preconceived  plan  ; 
and  the  proper  road  is  first  ascertained  when  the  journey  is 
drawing  to  its  close." 

3.  In  a  wilderness  so  vast  as  that  of  books,  to  go  astray 
often  and  widely  is  pardonable,  because  it  is  inevitable  ;  and 
in  proportion  as  the  errors  on  this  primary  field  of  study 
have  been  great,  it  is  important  to  have  reaped  some  compen- 
satory benefits  on  the  secondary  field  of  conversation.  Books 
teach  by  one  machinery,  conversation  by  another ;  and,  if 
these  resources  were  trained  into  correspondence  to  their  own 
separate  ide'als,  they  might  become  reciprocally  the  comple- 
ments of  each  other. 

4.  It  had  happened  that  amongst  our  nursery  collection  of 
books  was  the  Bible  illustrated  with  many  pictures.  And  in 
long  dark  evenings,  as  my  three  sisters  with  myself  sat  by  the 
firelight  round  the  guard  of  our  nursery,  no  book  was  so  much 
in  request  amongst  us.  It  ruled  us  and  swayed  us  as  mysteri- 
ously as  music.  One  young  nurse,  whom  we  all  loved,  before 
any  candle  was  lighted,  would  often  strain  her  eyes  to  read  it  for 
us  ;  and,  sometimes,  according  to  her  simple  powers,  would 
endeavor  to  explain  what  we  found  obscure.  We,  the  children, 
were  all  constitutionally  touched  with  pensiveness  ;  the  fitful 
gloom  and  sudden  lambencies  of  the  room  by  firelight  suited 
our  evening  state  of  feelings  ;  and  they  suited,  also,  the  divine 
revelations  of  power  and  mysterious  beauty  which  awed  us. 
Above  all,  the  story  of  a  just  man — man  and  yet  not  man,  real 
above  all  things,  and  yet  shadowy  above  all  things,  who  had 
suffered  the  passion  of  death  in  Palestine — slept  upon  our 
minds  like  early  dawn  upon  the  waters. 

5.  A  man  of  original  genius,  shown  to  us  as  revolving  through 
the  leisurely  stages  of  a  biographical  memoir,  lays  open,  to 
readers  prepared  for  sympathy,  two  separate  theaters  of  in- 
terest ;  one  in  his  personal  career  :  the  other  in  his  works  and 
his  intellectual  development.  Both  unfold  together  ;  and  each 
borrows  a  secondary  interest  from  the  other  :  the  life  from  the 
recollection  of  the  works — the  works  from  the  joy  and  sorrow 
of  the  life.  There  have,  indeed,  been  authors  whose  great  crea- 
tions, severely  preconceived  in  a  region  of  thought  transcen- 
dent to  all  impulses  of  earth,  would  have  been  pretty  nearly 


SELECTED    EXTRACTS.  219 

what  they  are  under  any  possible  changes  in  the  dramatic  ar- 
rangement of  their  lives.  Happy  or  not  happy — gay  or  sad — 
these  authors  would  equally  have  fulfilled  a  mission  too  solemn 
and  too  stern  in  its  obligations  to  suffer  any  warping  from  chance, 
or  to  bend  before  the  accidents  of  life,  whether  dressed  in  sun- 
shine or  in  wintry  gloom. 

6.  But  generally  this  is  otherwise.  Children  of  Paradise, 
like  the  Miltons  of  our  planet,  have  the  privilege  of  stars — to 
"  dwell  apart."  But  the  children  of  hesh,  whose  pulses  beat 
too  sympathetically  with  the  agitations  of  mother-earth,  can 
not  sequester  themselves  in  that  way.  They  walk  in  no  such 
altitudes,  but  at  elevations  easily  reached  by  ground-winds  of 
humble  calamity.  And  from  that  cup  of  sorrow,  which  upon 
all  lips  is  pressed  in  some  proportion,  they  must  submit,  by  the 
very  tenure  on  which  they  hold  their  gifts,  to  drink,  if  not  more 
profoundly  than  others,  yet  always  with  more  bitterness. 

7.  "  Put  not  your  trust  in  princes,  nor  in  the  sons  of  princes," 
— this  has  been  the  warning, — this  has  been  the  farewell  moral, 
winding  up  and  pointing  the  experience  of  dying  statesmen. 
Not  less  truly  it  might  be  said,  "  Put  not  your  trust  in  the  in- 
tellectual princes  of  your  age  :"  form  no  connections  too  close 
with  any  who  live  only  in  the  atmosphere  of  admiration  and 
praise.  The  love  or  the  friendship  of  such  people  rarely  con- 
tracts itself  into  the  narrow  circle  of  individuals.  You,  if  you 
are  brilliant  like  themselves,  they  will  hate  ;  you,  if  you  are 
dull,  they  will  despise.  Gaze,  therefore,  on  the  splendor  of  such 
idols  as  a  passing  stranger.  Look  for  a  moment  as  one  sharing 
in  the  idolatry  ;  but  pass  on  before  the  splendor  has  been  sullied 
by  human  frailty,  or  before  your  own  generous  homage  has  been 
confounded  with  offerings  of  weeds. 

8.  Gkief  !  thou  art  classed  amongst  the  depressing  passions. 
And  true  it  is  that  thou  humblest  to  the  dust,  but  also  thou  ex- 
altest  to  the  clouds.  Thou  shakest  as  with  ague,  but  also  thou 
steadiest  like  frost.  Thou  sickenest  the  heart,  but  also  thou 
healest  its  infirmities. 

9.  Solitude,  though  it  may  be  silent  as  light,  is,  like  light,  the 
mightiest  of  agencies  ;  for  solitude  is  essential  to  man.  All 
men  come  into  this  world  alone ;  all  leave  it  alone.  Even  a  little 
child  has  a  dread,  whispering  consciousness,  that,  if  he  should 
be  summoned  to  travel  into  God's  presence,  no  gentle  nurse 


220  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

will  be  allowed  to  lead  him  by  the  hand,  nor  mother  to  carry 
him  in  her  arms,  nor  little  sister  to  share  his  trepidations. 
King  and  priest,  warrior  and  maiden,  philosopher  and  child, 
all  must  walk  those  mighty  galleries  alone.  The  solitude, 
therefore,  which  in  this  world  appalls  or  fascinates  a  child's 
heart,  is  but  the  echo  of  a  far  deeper  solitude,  through  which 
already  he  has  passed,  and  of  another  solitude  deeper  still, 
through  which  he  lias  to  pass  :  reflex  of  one  solitude — prefigur- 
ation  of  another. 

10.  Deep  is  the  solitude  of  millions  who,  with  hearts  welling 
forth  love,  have  none  (nun)  to  love  them.  Deep  is  the  solitude 
of  those  who,  under  secret  griefs,  have  none  to  pity  them. 
Deep  is  the  solitude  of  those  who,  fighting  with  doubts  or  dark- 
ness, have  none  to  counsel  them.  But  deeper  than  the  deepest 
of  these  solitudes  is  that  which  broods  over  childhood  under 
the  passion  of  sorrow — bringing  before  it,  at  intervals,  the  final 
solitude  which  watches  for  it,  and  is  waiting  for  it  within  the 
gates  of  death.  O  mighty  and  essential  solitude,  that  wast, 
and  art,  and  art  to  be,  thy  kingdom  is  made  perfect  in  the 
grave  ;  but  even  over  those  that  keep  watch  outside  the  grave, 
thou  stretchest  out  a  scepter  of  fascination. 

11.  The  dream  commenced  with  a  music  which  now  I  offcn 
heard  in  dreams — a  music  of  preparation  and  of  awakening 
suspense  ;  a  music  like  the  opening  of  the  Coronation  Anthem, 
and  which,  like  that,  gave  the  feeling  of  a  vast  march,  of  infinite 
cavalcades  filing  off,  and  the  tread  of  innumerable  armies.  The 
morning  was  come  of  a  mighty  day — a  day  of  crisis  and  of 
final  hope  for  human  nature,  then  suffering  some  mysterious 
eclipse,  and  laboring  in  some  dread  extremity.  Somewhere,  I 
knew  not  where — somehow,  I  knew  not  how — by  some  beings, 
I  knew  not  whom — a  battle,  a  strife,  an  agony,  was  conducting, 
— was  evolving  like  a  great  drama,  or  piece  of  music  ;  with 
which  my  sympathy  was  the  more  insupportable  from  my  con- 
fusion as  to  its  place,  its  cause,  its  nature,  and  its  possible  issue. 
I,  as  is  usual  in  dreams  (where,  of  necessity,  we  make  ourselves 
central  to  every  movement),  had  the  power,  and  yet  had  not  the 
power,  to  decide  it.  I  had  the  power,  if  I  could  raise  myself, 
to  will  it ;  and  yet  again  had  not  the  power,  for  the  weight  of 
twenty  Atlantics  was  upon  me,  or  the  oppression  of  inexpiable 
guilt.     "  Deeper  than  ever  plummet  sounded,"  I  lay  inactive. 


GIL    BLAS    AND    THE    OLD    ARCHBISHOP.  2*21 

12.  Then,  liko  a  chorus,  the  passion  deepened.  Some  greater 
interest  was  at  stake  ;  some  mightier  cause  than  ever  yet  the 
sword  had  pleaded,  or  trumpet  had  proclaimed.  Then  came 
sudden  alarms  ;  hurryings  to  and  fro  ;  trepidations  of  innu- 
merable fugitives.  I  knew  not  whether  from  the  good  cause  or 
the  bad  ;  darkness  and  lights  ;  tempest  and  human  faces  ;  and 
at  last,  with  the  sense  that  all  was  lost,  female  forms,  and  tho 
features  that  were  worth  all  the  world  to  me,  and  but  a  moment 
allowed, — and  clasped  hands,  and  heart-breaking  partings,  and 
then — everlasting  farewells  !  and,  with  a  sigh,  such  as  the  caves 
of  hell  sighed  when  the  incestuous  mother  uttered  the  abhorred 
name  of  Death,  the  sound  was  reverberated — everlasting  fare- 
wells !  and  again,  and  yet  again  reverberated — everlasting  fare- 
wells!    And  I  awoke  in  struggles,  and  cried  aloud — "I  will 

SLEEP   NO    MOKE!"  De  QUIKCBT, 


SECTION    XI. 
I. 

58.     GIL    BLAS    AND    THE    OLD    ARCHBISHOP. 

A  RCHBISHOP.  "Well,  young  man,  what  is  your  business 
i    \    with  me  ? 

Gil  Bias.  I  am  the  young  man  whom  your  nephew,  Don  Fer- 
nando, was  pleased  to  mention  to  you. 

^I?*c/i.  Oh!  you  are  the  person,  then,  of  whom  he  spoke  so 
handsomely.  I  engage  you  in  my  service,  and  consider  you  a 
valuable  acquisition.  From  the  specimens  he  showed  me  of 
your  powers,  you  must  be  pretty  well  acquainted  with  the 
Greek  and  Latin  authors.  It  is  very  evident  your  education  has 
not  been  neglected.  I  am  satisfied  with  your  handwriting,  and 
still  more  with  your  understanding.  I  thank  my  nephew,  Don 
Fernando,  for  having  given  me  such  an  able  young  man,  whom 
I  consider  a  rich  acquisition.  You  transcribe  so  well,  you  must 
certainly  understand  grammar.  Tell  me,  ingenuously,  my 
friend,  did  you  find  nothing  that  shocked  you  in  writing  over 
the  homily  I  sent  you  on  trial, — some  neglect,  perhaps,  in  style, 
or  some  improper  term  ? 


222  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Gil  B.  Oh!  sir,  I  am  not  learned  enough  to  make  critical 
observations  ;  and  if  I  was,  I  am  persuaded  the  works  of  your 
grace  would  escape  my  censure. 

Arch.  Young  man,  you  are  disposed  to  natter ;  but  tell  me, 
which  parts  of  it  did  you  think  most  strikingly  beautiful. 

Gil  B.  If,  where  all  was  excellent,  any  parts  were  particularly 
so,  I  should  say  they  were  the  personification  of  hope,  and  the 
description  of  a  good  man's  death. 

Arch.  I  see  you  have  a  delicate  knowledge  of  the  truly  beau- 
tiful. This  is  what  I  call  having  taste  and  sentiment.  Gil  Bias,1 
henceforth  give  thyself  no  uneasiness  about  thy  fortune,  I  will 
take  care  of  that.  I  love  thee,  and  as  a  proof  of  my  affection, 
I  will  make  thee  my  confidant :  yes,  my  child,  thou  shalt  be  the 
repository  of  my  most  secret  thoughts.  Listen  with  attention 
to  what  I  am  going  to  say.  My  chief  pleasure  consists  in 
preaching,  and  the  Lord  gives  a  blessing  to  my  homilies,  but  I 
confess  my  weakness.  The  honor  of  being  thought  a  perfect 
orator  has  charmed  my  imagination  ;  my  performances  are 
thought  equally  nervous  and  delicate  ;  but  I  would  of  all  things 
avoid  the  fault  of  good  authors,  who  write  too  long.  Where- 
fore, my  dear  Gil  Bias,  one  thing  that  I  exact  of  thy  zeal,  is, 
whenever  thou  shalt  perceive  my  pen  smack  of  old  age,  and  my 
genius  flag,  don't  fail  to  advertise'  me  of  it,  for  I  don't  trust  to 
my  own  judgment,  which  may  be  seduced  by  self-love.  That 
observation  must  proceed  from  a  disinterested  understanding, 
and  I  make  choice  of  thine,  which  I  know  is  good,  and  am 
resolved  to  stand  by  thy  decision. 

Gil  B.  Thank  heaven,  sir,  that  time  is  far  off.  Besides,  a 
genius  like  that  of  your  grace,  will  preserve  its  vigor  much 
better  than  any  other  ;  or,  to  speak  more  justly,  will  be  always 
the  same.  I  look  upon  you  as  another  Cardinal  Ximenes," 
whose  superior  genius,  instead  of  being  weakened,  seemed  to 
acquire  new  strength  by  age. 

Arch.  No  flattery,  friend  :  I  know  I  am  liable  to  sink  all  at 
once.     People  at  my  ago  begin  to  feel  infirmities,  and  the  in- 

1  Gil  Bias,  (zel  bill).  arose  from  his  efforts  to  advance  the 

1  Francis    Ximenes,    (zi  mo'  nez),  interests  of  the  Church.     He  was  a 

archbishop  of  Toledo,  confessor  to  great  patron  of  letters,  and  by  his 

Queen  Isabella  of  Spain,  was  born  exertions  and  expenditure  produced 

in  1437.     He  received  the  cardinal's  the  earliest  edition  of  a  polyglot  BU 

feat,   in   1507.      His  chief  influence  ble.     He  died  November  8th,  1517. 


GIL  BLAS  AND  THE  OLD  ARCHBISHOP.      223 

firmities  of  the  body  often  affect  the  understanding.  I  repeat 
it  to  thee  again,  Gil  Bias,  as  soon  as  thou  shalt  judge  mine  in 
the  least  impaired,  be  sure  to  give  me  notice.  And  be  not 
afraid  of  speaking  freely  and  sincerely,  for  I  shall  receive  thy 
advice  as  a  mark  of  thy  affection. 

Gil  B.  Your  grace  may  always  depend  upon  my  fidelity. 

Arch.  I  know  thy  sincerity,  Gil  Bias  ;  and  now  tell  me  plainly, 
hast  thou  not  heard  tho  people  make  some  remarks  upon  my 
late  homilies  ? 

Gil  B.  Your  homilies  have  always  been  admired,  but  it  seems 
to  me  that  tho  last  did  not  appear  to  have  had  so  powerful  an 
effect  upon  the  audience  as  former  ones. 

Arch.  How,  sir,  has  it  met  with  any  Aristarchus? 

Gil  B.  No,  sir,  by  no  means,  such  works  as  yours  are  not  to 
be  criticised  ;  everybody  is  charmed  with  them.  Nevertheless, 
since  you  have  laid  your  injunctions  upon  me  to  bo  free  and  sin- 
cere, I  will  take  the  liberty  to  tell  you  that  your  last  discourse, 
in  my  judgment,  has  not  altogether  the  energy  of  your  other 
performances.     Did  you  not  think  so,  sir,  yourself  ? 

Arch.  So,  then,  Mr.  Gil  Bias,  this  piece  is  not  to  your  taste  ? 

Gil  B.  I  don't  say  so,  sir  :  I  think  it  excellent,  although  a  little 
inferior  to  your  other  works. 

Arch.  I  understand  you  ;  you  think  I  flag,  don't  you?  Come, 
be  plain  ;  you  believe  it  is  time  for  me  to  think  of  retiring. 

Gil  B.  I  should  not  have  been  so  bold  as  to  speak  so  freely, 
if  your  grace  had  not  commanded  me  ;  I  do  no  more,  there- 
fore, than  obey  you  ;  and  I  most  humbly  beg  that  you  will  not 
be  offended  at  my  freedom. 

Arch.  God  forbid !  God  forbid  that  I  should  find  fault  with  it. 
I  don't  at  all  take  it  ill  that  you  should  sneak  vour  sentiments, 
it  is  your  sentiment  itself,  only,  that  I  find  bad.  I  have  been 
most  egregiously  deceived  in  your  narrow  understanding. 

Gil  B.  Your  grace  will  pardon  me  for  obeying — 

Arch.  Say  no  more,  my  child,  you  are  yet  too  raw  to  make 
proper  distinctions.  Be  it  known  to  you,  I  never  composed  a 
better  homily  than  that  which  you  disapprove  ;  for,  my  genius, 
thank  Heaven,  hath,  as  yet,  lost  nothing  of  its  vigor  :  henceforth 

i  ArNis  tar'chus  was  a  celebrated  revised  the  poems  of  Homer  with 
grammarian  of  Samos.  He  was  fa-  such  severity,  that,  ever  after,  all  se- 
mous  for  his  critical  powers ;  and  he    vere  critics  were  called  Aristarchi. 


224  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

I  will  make  a  better  choice  of  a  confidant.  Go !  go,  Mr.  Gil 
Bias,  and  tell  my  treasurer  to  give  you  a  hundred  ducats,  and 
may  Heaven  conduct  you  with  that  sum.  Adieu,  Mr.  Gil  Bias ! 
I  wish  you  all  manner  of  prosperity,  with  a  little  more  taste. 

Le  Sage. 
Alain  Le  Sage,  a  French  novelist  and  dramatist,  was  born  in  1668.  In  1692, 
after  having  studied  at  the  Jesuit  College  of  Vannes,  he  came  to  Paris,  where 
he  was  admitted  as  an  advocate,  but  soon  betook  himself  exclusively  to  litera- 
ture. Few  of  his  plays  were  successful ;  and  for  many  years  his  career  was  very 
obscure.  Entering  on  the  study  of  Spanish  literature,  he  used  models  from  that 
language  for  his  comic  novels,  some  of  which  are  among  the  liveliest  and  witti- 
est of  their  class.  His  most  celebrated  work  is  "  Gil  Bias,"  from  which  the 
above  is  taken.    He  died  at  Boulogne,  in  1747. 

II. 

59.     THE    POET    AND    HIS    CRITICS. 

THE  poem  was  at  length  published.  Alas,  who  that  knows 
the  heart  of  an  author — of  an  aspiring  one — will  need  be 
told  what  were  the  feelings  of  Maldura,  when  day  after  day, 
week  after  week  passed  on,  and  still  no  tidings  of  his  book.  To 
think  it  had  failed,  was  wormwood  to  his  soul.  "  No,  that  was 
impossible."  Still  the  suspense,  the  uncertainty  of  its  fate  were 
insupportable.  At  last,  to  relieve  his  distress,  he  fastened  the 
blamo  on  his  unfortunate  publisher  ;  though  how  he  was  in 
fault  he  knew  not.  Full  of  this  thought,  he  was  just  saUying 
forth  to  vent  his  spleen  on  him,  when  his  servant  announced  the 
Count  Piccini.1 

2.  " Now," thought  Maldura,  "I  shall  hear  my  fate  :"  and  he 
was  not  mistaken  ;  for  the  Count  was  a  kind  of  talking  gazette. 
The  poem  was  soon  introduced,  and  Piccini  rattled  on  wifh  all 
he  had  heard  of  it.  He  had  lately  been  piqued 3  by  Maldura,  and 
cared  not  to  spare  him.  After  a  few  hollow  professions  of  regard, 
and  a  careless  remark  about  the  pain  it  gave  him  to  repeat  un- 
pleasant things,  Piccini  proceeded  to  p5ur  them  out  one  upon 
another  with  ruthless  volubility.  Then,  stopping  as  if  to  take 
breath,  he  continued,  "  I  see  you  are  surprised  at  all  this  ;  but 
indeed,  my  friend,  I  can  not  help  thinking  it  principaUy  owing 
to  your  not  having  suppressed  your  name  ;  for  your  high  repu- 
tation, it  seems,  has  raised  such  extravagant  expectations  as 
none  but  a  first-rate  genius  could  satisfy." 

1  Piccini,  (pit  che'  ne).  3  Piqued,  (pekt),  offended. 


THE    POET    AND    HIS    CRITICS.  225 

3.  "By  which,"  observed  Maldura,  "lam  to  conclude  that 
my  work  has  failed?  "  Why,  no — not  exactly  that ;  it  has  Only 
not  been  praised — that  is,  I  mean  in  the  way  you  might  have 
wished.  But  do  not  be  depressed  ;  there'3  no  knowing  but  the 
tide  may  yet  turn  in  your  favor."  "  Then  I  suppose  the  book  is 
hardly  as  yet  known?"  "I  beg  your  pardon — quite  the  con- 
trary. When  your  friend  the  Marquis  introduced  it  at  his  last 
conversazione1  every  one  present  seemed  quite  an  fait7  on  it,  at 
least  they  all  talked  as  if  they  had  read  it." 

4.  Maldura  bit  his  lips.  "Pray,  who  were  the  company?" 
"  Oh,  all  your  friends,  I  assure  you  :  Guattani,  Martello,  Pessuti, 
the  mathematician,  Alfieri,  Benuci,  the  Venetian  Castelli,  and 
the  old  Ferraresc  Carnesecchi  :  these  were  the  principal,  but 
there  were  twenty  others  who  had  each  something  to  say." 
Maldura  could  not  but  perceive  the  malice  of  this  enumeration  ; 
but  he  checked  his  rising  choler.  "  Well,"  said  he,  "  if  I  under- 
stand you,  there  was  but  one  opinion  respecting  my  poem  with 
all  this  company?" 

5.  "Oh,  by  no  means.  Their  opinions  were  as  various  aa 
their  characters."  "  Well,  Pessuti — what  said  he  ?"  "  Why  you 
know  he's  a  mathematician,  and  should  not  regard  him.  But 
yet,  to  do  him  justice,  he  is  a  very  nice  critic,  and  not  unskilled 
in  poetry."  "  Go  on,  sir,  I  can  bear  it."  "  Why  then,  it  was 
Pessuti's  opinion  that  the  poem  had  more  learning  than  genius." 
"Proceed,  sir."  "Martello  denied  it  both  ;  but  he,  you  know, 
is  a  disappointed  author.  Guattani  differed  but  little  from 
Pessuti  as  to  its  learning,  but  contended  that  you  eertainly 
showed  great  invention  in  your  fable — which  was  like  nothing 
that  ever  did,  or  could  happen.     But  I  fear  I  annoy  you." 

6.  "  Go  on,  I  beg,  sir."  "  The  next  who  spoke  was  old 
Carnesecchi,  who  confessed  that  he  had  no  doubt  he  should 
have  been  delighted  with  the  poem,  could  he  have  taken  hold 
of  it ;  but  it  was  so  en  regie,3  and  like  a  hundred  others,  that  it 
put  him  in  mind  of  what  is  called  a  polished  gentleman,  who 
talks  and  bows,  and  slips  through  a  great  crowd  without  leaving 
any  impression.  Another  person,  whose  name  I  have  forgotten, 
praised  the  versification,  but  objected  to  the  thoughts." 

1  Conversazione,  (kon'ver  safsc-        a  Au  fait,  (6  fa'),  expert;   well  in- 
by  na),  a  meeting  for  conversation,    structed. 
particularly  on  literary  subjects.  3  En  regie,  according  to  rule ;  stiff 


226  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

7.  "  Because  they  -were  absurd  ?"  "  Oh,  no,  for  the  opposite 
reason — because  they  had  all  been  long  ago  known  to  be  good. 
Castelli  thought  that  a  bad  reason  ;  for  his  part,  he  said,  he  liked 
them  all  the  better  for  that — it  was  like  shaking  hands  with  an 

Id  acquaintance  in  every  line.  Another  observed,  that  at  least 
no  critical  court  could  lawfully  condemn  them,  as  they  could 
each  plead  an  alibi.1  Not  an  alibi,  said  a  third,  but  a  double; 
so  they  should  be  burnt  for  sorcery  "With  all  my  heart,  said  a 
fourth  ;  but  not  the  poor  author,  for  he  has  certainly  satisfied 
us  that  he  is  no  conjuror. 

8.  "  Then  Castelli — but,  'faith,  I  don't  know  how  to  proceed." 
"  You  are  over-delicate,  sir.  Speak  out,  I  pray  you."  "  Well, 
Benuci  finished  by  the  most  extravagant  eulogy  I  ever  heard." 
Maldura  took  breath.  "For  he  compared  your  hero  to  the 
Apollo  Belvedere,2  your  heroine  to  the  Venus 3  de  Medicis,  and 
your  subordinate  characters  to  the  Diana,4  the  Hercules,5  the 
Antln'ous,6  and  twenty  other  celebrated  antiques ;  declared  them 
all  equally  well  wrought,  and  beautiful — and  like  them  too, 
equally  cold,  hard,  and  motionless.  In  short,  he  maintained  that 
you  were  the  boldest  and  most  original  poet  he  had  ever  known  ; 
for  none  but  a  hardy  genius,  who  consulted  nobody's  taste  but 
his  own,  would  have  dared,  like  you,  to  draw  his  animal  life 
from  a  statue  gallery,  and  his  vegetable  from  a  hortus  siccus.7 

9.  Maldura's  heart  stiffened  within  him,  but  his  pride  con- 
trolled him,  and  he  masked  his  thoughts  with  something  like 
composure.  Yet  he  dared  not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  stood 
looking  at  Piccini,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  go  on.     "  I  believe 

1  Alr  i  bi,  elsewhere.     To  plead  an  beauty.     It  was  discovered  in  the 

alibi  is  to  show  that  the  accused  was  villa  of  Adrian,  at  Tivoli,  the  favorite 

in  some  other  place  when  the  crime  country-seat  of  the  ancient  Romans, 

was  committed.  and  carried  to  Florence  in  1695. 

3  Apollo  Belvedere,  a  statue  of  4  Dl  a'  na,  an  ancient  Italian  di- 

the  Greek  divinity  Apollo.     In  this  vinity,  whom  the  Romans  identified 

the  god  is  represented  with  com-  with  the  Greek  Artemis. 

mandingbut  serene  majesty;  sublime  6  Her'  cu  les,  the  most  celebrated 

intellect   and  physical   beauty    are  of  all  the  heroes  of  antiquity, 

combined    in    the  most   wonderful  •  Antinous,  (an  tin'  o  us),  a  beauti- 

manner.     It  was  discovered  in  1503  ful  youth,  celebrated  as  the  compan- 

at  Rett uno,  and  is  now  in  the  Vatican  ion  and  favorite  of  Adrian,  the  Ro- 

at  Rome.  man  emperor,  drowned  in  132. 

3  Venus  de  Medicis,  a  statue  ad-  7  Hortus  siccus,  a  dry  or  unpro. 

mired  as  the  perfection  of  female  ductive  garden. 


THE    SENSITIVE    AUTHOR.  227 

that's  all,"  said  the  count,  carelessly  twirling  his  hat,  and  rising 
to  take  leave.  Maldura  roused  himself,  and,  making  an  effort, 
said,  "  No,  sir,  there  is  one  person  whom  you  have  only  named 
— Alfieri ;  what  did  he  say  ?" — "  Nothing  !"  Piccini  pronounced 
this  word  with  a  graver  tone  than  usual  :  it  was  his  fiercest  bolt, 
and  he  knew  that  a  show  of  feeling  would  send  it  home.  Then, 
after  pausing  a  moment,  he  hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Allston. 
Washington  Allston,  universally  acknowledged  as  of  the  first  eminence 
among  American  painters,  was  born  in  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  November 
5th,  1779.  He  received  his  early  education  at  the  school  of  Mr.  Robert  Rogers, 
in  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  entered  Harvard  College  in  17%,  and  received  his 
baccalaureate  degree  in  1800.  Immediately  after  leaving  college  he  chose  his 
vocation,  embarked  for  London  in  1801,  and  became  a  student  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  of  which  Benjamin  West,  the  distinguished  American  painter,  was 
then  president.  Here  he  remained  three  years, and  then,  after  a  sojourn  at  Paris, 
went  to  Rome,  where  he  resided  four  years,  and  became  the  intimate  associate- 
of  Coleridge.  In  1809  he  returned  to  America  for  a  period  of  two  years,  which 
he  passed  in  Boston,  where  he  married  the  sister  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Charming.  In 
1811  he  went  a  second  time  to  England,  where  his  reputation  as  a  painter  was 
now  well  established.  He  received  by  his  picture  of  the  "  Dead  Man  raised  by 
the  Bones  of  Elisha"  a  prize  of  two  hundred  guineas,  at  the  British  Institute, 
where  the  first  artists  in  the  world  were  his  competitors.  Here  he  published  a 
small  volume,  "The  Sylphs  of  the  Seasons,  and  other  Poems,"  which  was  re- 
printed in  Boston  the  same  year.  This  year  his  wife  died,  an  event  which  af- 
fected him  deeply.  He  returned  home  in  1818,  and  resumed  his  residence  at 
Boston.  In  1830  he  married  a  sister  of  Richard  II.  Dana,  and  removed  to  Cam- 
bridgeport.  His  lectures  on  art  were  commenced  about  the  same  period,  four 
only  of  which  were  completed,  and  these  did  not  appear  until  after  his  decease. 
Besides  his  lectures,  his  poems,  and  many  short  pieces  which  have  since  been 
given  to  the  public,  Mr.  Allston  was  the  author  of  u  Monaldi,"  a  story  of  extra- 
ordinary power  and  interest,  from  which  the  above  extract  is  taken.  He  died 
very  suddenly,  on  the  night  of  the  8th  of  July,  1843,  leaving  but  one  painting 
incomplete,  "  Belshazzar's  Feast,  or  the  Handwriting  on  the  Wall,"  upon  which 
he  had  been  engaged  at  intervals  for  nearly  twenty  years. 

m. 

60.     THE    SENSITIVE    AUTHOR.1 
Dangle,  Sneer,  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary. 

DANGLE.  Ah,  my  dear  friend !     AVe  v>-ere  just  speaking  of 
your  tragedy.     Admirable,  Sir  Fretful,  admirable ! 
Sneer.  You  never  did  anything  beyond  it,  Sir  Fretful, — never 

in  your  life. 

■  ~~ — ■ • 

1  In  this  scene  from  "  The  Critic,     Cumberland,  a  vain  and   sensitive, 

or  a  Tragedy  Rehearsed,"  Sheridan    though  excellent  man,  a  writer  of 

caricatured  the  foibles  of  Richard    several  plays,  who  died  in  1811. 


228  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Sir  F.  Sincerely,  then, — you  do  like  the  piece  ? 

Sneer.  Wonderfully! 

Sir  F.  But  come  now,  there  must  be  something  that  you  think 
might  be  mended,  hey  ? — Mr.  Dangle,  has  nothing  struck  you  ? 

Dan.  Why,  faith,  it  is  but  an  ungracious  thing,  for  the  most 
part,  to 

Sir  F.  Yv7ith  most  authors  it  is  just  so  indeed  ;  they  are  in 
general  strangely  tenacious  !  But,  for  my  part,  I  am  never  so 
well  pleased  as  when  a  judicious  critic  points  out  any  defect  in 
me  ;  for  what  is  the  purpose  of  showing  a  work  to  a  friend,  if 
you  don't  mean  to  profit  by  his  opinion  ? 

Sneer.  Very  true.  Why,  then,  though  I  seriously  admire  the 
piece  upon  the  whole,  yet  there  is  one  small  objection  ;  which, 
if  you'll  give  me  leave,  I'll  mention. 

Sir  F.  Sir,  you  can't  oblige  me  more. 

Sneer.  I  think  it  wants  incident. 

Sir  F.  You  surprise  me! — wants  incident? 

Sneer.  Yes  ;  I  own,  I  think  the  incidents  arc  too  few. 

Sir  F.  Believe  me,  Mr.  Sneer,  there  is  no  person  for  whose 
judgment  I  have  a  more  implicit  deference.  But  I  protest  to 
you,  Mr.  Sneer,  I  am  only  apprehensive  that  the  incidents  are 
too  crowded. — My  dear  Dangle,  how  does  it  strike  yon  ? 

Dan.  Really,  I  can't  agree  with  my  friend  Sneer.  I  think 
the  plot  quite  sufficient ;  and  the  first  four  acts  by  many  degrees 
the  best  I  ever  read  or  saw  in  my  life.  If  I  might  venture  to  sug- 
gest anything,  it  is  that  the  in'terest  rather  falls  off  in  the  fifth. 

Sir  F.  Rises,  I  believe,  you  mean,  sir 

Dan.  No  ;  I  don't,  upon  my  word. 

Sir  F.  Yes,  }*es,  you  do,  upon  my  word, — it  certainly  don't 
fall  off,  I  assure  you.     No,  no,  it  don't  fall  off. 

Dan.  Well,  Sir  Fretful,  I  wish  3*011  may  be  ablo  to  get  rid  as 
easily  of  the  newspaper  criticisms  as  you  do  of  ours. 

Sir  F.  The  newspapers ! — Sir,  they  are  the  most  villainous — ■ 
licentious — abominable — infernal — Not  that  I  ever  read  them ! 
No !  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  look  into  a  newspaper. 

Dan.  You  are  quite  right, — for  it  certainly  must  hurt  an 
author  of  delicate  feelings  to  see  the  liberties  they  take. 

Sir  F.  No ! — quite  the  contrary  ;  their  abuse  is,  in  fact,  the 
best  panegyric  — I  like  it  of  all  things.  An  author's  reputation 
is  only  in  danger  from  their  support. 


THE    SENSITIVE    AUTHOR.  2?0 

Surer.  Wh}-,  that's  true, — and  that  attack  now  on  you  the 
other  day 

SirF.  What?  where? 

Dan.  Ay,  you  moan  in  a  paper  of  Thursday  ;  it  was  com- 
pletely ill-natured,  to  be  sure. 

SirF.  O,  so  much  the  better — Ha!  ha!  ha! — I  wouldn't 
have  it  otherwise. 

Dan.  Certainly,  it's  only  to  be  laughed  at  •  (or 

Sir  F.  You  don't  happen  to  recollect  what  the  fellow  said,  do 
you  ? 

Sneer.  Pray,  Danq-le — Sir  Fretful  seems  a  little  anxious 

Sir  F.  O  no  ! — anxious, — not  I, — not  the  least.  I —  But  ono 
may  as  well  hear,  you  know. 

Dan.  Sneer,  do  you  recollect? — [Aside  to  Sneer.]  Make  out 
fjometking. 

Sneer.  [Aside  to  Dangle.]  I  will.  [Aloud.]  Yc.%  yea,  I  re- 
member perfectly. 

Sir  F.  Well,  and  pray  now — not  that  it  signifies — what  might 
the  gentleman  say  ? 

Sheer.  Why,  he  roundly  asserts  that  you  have  not  the  slightest 
invention  or  original  genius  whatever  ;  though  you  aro  the 
greatest  traducer  of  all  other  authors  living. 

Sir  F.  Ha !  ha  !  ha !     Very  good ! 

Sneer.  That,  as  to  comedy,  you  have  not  one  idea  of  your 
own,  he  believes,  even  in  your  commonplace-book,  where  stray 
jokes  and  pilfered  witticisms  are  kept  with  as  much  method  a3 
tho  ledger  of  the  Lost  and  Stolen  Office. 

Sir  F.  Ha !  ha  !  ha !     Very  pleasant ! 

Sneer.  Nay,  that  you  are  so  unlucky  as  not  to  have  the  skill 
even  to  steal  with  taste  :  but  that  you  glean  from  the  refuse  of 
obscure  volumes,  where  more  judicious  plagiarists  have  been 
before  you ;  so  that  the  body  of  your  work  is  a  composition  of 
dregs  and  sediments, — like  a  bad  tavern's  worst  wine. 

Sir  F.  Ha !  ha  ! 

Sneer.  In  your  more  serious  efforts,  he  says,  your  bombast 
(bum'bast)  would  be  less  intolerable,  if  the  thoughts  were  ever 
suited  to  the  expression  ;  but  the  homeliness  of  the  sentiment 
stares  through  the  fantastic  encumbrance  of  its  fine  language, 
like  a  clown  in  one  of  the  new  uniforms ! 

Sir  F.  Ha !  ha ! 


230  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 

Sneer.  That  your  occasional  tropes  and  flowers  suit  the  gen- 
eral coarseness  of  your  style,  as  tambour  sprigs  would  a  ground 
of  linsey-wolsey  ;  while  your  imitations  of  Shakspeare  resem- 
ble the  mimicry  of  FalstafPs  Page,  and  are  about  as  near  the 
standard  of  the  original. 

SirF.  Ha! 

Sneer.  In  short,  that  even  the  finest  passages  you  steal  are  of 
no  service  to  you  ;  for  the  poverty  of  your  own  language  pre- 
vents their  assimilating  ;  so  that  they  lie  on  the  surface  like 
lumps  of  marl  on  a  barren  moor,  encumbering  what  it  is  not  in 
their  power  to  fertilize ! 

Sir  F.  [After  great  agitation.]  Now,  another  person  would 
be  vexed  at  this. 

Sneer.  Oh !  but  I  wouldn't  have  told  you,  only  to  divert'  you. 

Sir  F.  I  know  it — I  am  diverted — Ha !  ha !  ha  ! — not  the 
least  invention ! — Ha !  ha !  ha !  very  good !  very  good ! 

Sneer.  Yes — no  genius !     Ha !  ha  !  ha ! 

Dan.  A  severe  rogue !  ha !  ha !  But  you  are  quite  right,  Sir 
Fretful,  never  to  read  such  nonsense.     You  are  quite  right. 

Sir  F.  To  be  sure — for,  if  there  is  anything  to  one's  praise, 

it  is  a  foolish  vanity  to  be  gratified  at  it ;  and  if  it  is  abuse, — 

why,  one  is  always  sure  to  hear  of  it  from  one  good-natured 

friend  or  another !  _  _, 

R.  B.  Sheridan. 


SECTION    XII. 
I. 

61.  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  WRITERS. 

THE  classics  possess  a  peculiar  charm,  from  the  circumstance 
that  they  have  been  the  models,  I  might  almost  say  the 
masters,  of  composition  and  thought  in  all  ages.  In  the  con- 
templation of  these  august  teachers  of  mankind,  wo  are  filled 
with  conflicting  emotions. 

2.  They  are  the  early  voice  of  the  world,  better  remembered 
and  more  cherished  still  than  all  the  intermediate  words  that 
have  been  uttered  ;  as  the  lessons  of  childhood  still  haunt  us 
when  the  impressions  of  later  years  have  been  effaced  from  the 


ANCIENT    AND    MODERN    WRITERS.  231 

mind.  But  they  show  with  most  unwelcome  frequency  the 
tokens  of  the  world's  childhood,  before  passion  had  yielded  to 
the  sway  of  reason  and  the  affections.  They  want  the  highest 
charm  of  purity,  of  righteousness,  of  elevated  sentiments,  of 
love  to  God  and  man. 

3.  It  is  not  in  the  frigid  philosoj^hj'  of  the  Porch  and  the 
Academy  that  wo  are  to  seek  these  ;  not  in  the  marvelous 
teachings  of  Socrates,1  as  they  come  mended  by  the  mellifluous 
words  of  Plato  ;  not  in  the  resounciing  lino  of  Homer,  on  whose 
inspiring  tale  of  blood  Alexander3  pillowed  his  head  ;  not  in  the 
animated  strain  of  Pindar,*  where  virtue  is  pictured  in  the  suc- 
cessful strife  of  an  ath'leto 5  at  the  Isthmian  games  ;  not  in  the 
torrent  of  Demosthenes,  dark  with  self-love  and  the  spirit  of 
vengeance  ;  not  in  the  fitful  philosophy  and  intemperate  elo- 
quence of  Tully,"  not  in  the  genial  libertiuism  of  Horace,7  or  the 
stately  atheism  of  Lucretius.8  No  :  these  must  not  be  our  mas- 
ters ;  in  none  of  these  are  we  to  seek  the  way  of  life. 

4.  For  eighteen  hundred  years  the  spirit  of  these  writers  has 
been  engaged  in  weaponless  contest  with  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount,  and  those  two  sublime  commandments  on  which  hang 
all  the  law  and  the  prophets.  The  strife  is  still  pending. 
Heathenism,  which  has  £>ossessed  itself  of  such  siren  forms,  is 
not  yet  exorcised.  It  still  tempts  the  young,  controls  the  affairs 
of  active  life,  and  haunts  the  meditations  of  age. 

5.  Our  own  productions,  though  they  may  yield  to  those  of 
the  ancients  in  the  arrangement  of  ideas,  in  method,  in  beauty 

1  S5c'  rates,  an  illustrious  Grecian  in  May  or  June,  b.  c.  323. 
philosopher  and  teacher  of   youth,         <  Pindar,  the  greatest  of  the  Greek 
was  born  at  Athens,  in  the  year  4G8  lyric  poets,  born  b.  c.  518,  and  died 
B.  c.     Though  the  best  of  all  the  b.  c.  439. 

men  of  his  time,  and  one  of  the  wisest  ■  Ath'  lete,  a  contender  for  victory 

and  most  just  of  all  men,  he  unjustly  in  wrestling  or  other  games, 

suffered   the  punishment  of   death  e  Tully,  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero, 

for  impiety,  at  the  age  of  seventy.  7  H5rr  ace,  the  Roman  poet,  bom 

2  Mel  liTlu  ous,  flowing  with  hon-  on  the  8th  of  December,  b.  c.  Go, 
ey ;  sweetly  flowing ;  smooth.  and  died  on  the  19th  of  November, 

3  Alexander  the   Great,    son   of  b.  c.  8. 

Philip,  king  of  Macedonia,  one  of  8  Lucretius,  (lu  kreT  shi  us),  an  em- 
the  States  of  Greece,  was  born  in  the  inent  philosopher  and  poet ;  born  at 
autumn,  b.  c.  35G.  lie  made  so  manv  Rome  about  9G  B.  c.,  and  said  to  have 
conquests  that  he  was  styled  the  died  by  his  own  hands  in  the  forty- 
Conqueror  of  the  World.     He  died  fourth  year  of  his  age,  about  62. 


232  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

of  form,  and  in  freshness  of  illustration,  are  immeasurably 
superior  in  the  truth,  delicacy,  and  elevation  of  their  sentiments ; 
above  all,  in  the  benign  recognition  of  that  great  Christian  reve- 
lation, the  brotherhood  of  man.  How  vain  are  eloquence  and 
poetry,  compared  with  this  heaven-descended  truth!  Put  in 
one  scale  that  simole  utterance,  and  in  the  other  the  lore  of  an- 
tiquity,  with  its  accumulating  glosses  and  commentaries,  and  the 
last  will  be  light  and  trivial  in  the  balance.  Greet  poetry  has 
been  likened  to  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  as  she  sits  in  the 
rich,  symmetrical  crown  of  the  palm-tree,  trilling  her  thick- 
warbled  notes  ;  but  even  this  is  less  sweet  and  tender  than  the 
music  of  the  human  heart.  Sumner. 

Charles  Sumner,  son  of  Charles  Pinckney  Sumner,  sheriff  of  Suffolk,  Massa- 
chusetts, was  born  in  Boston,  1811.  lie  is  widely  known  for  the  extent  of  his 
legal  knowledge  and  general  attainments.  As  an  orator  and  writer,  he  6tands 
deservedly  high.  His  style  is  rapid  and  energetic,  with  much  fullness  of  thought 
and  illustration.  He  has  a  great  deal  of  enthusiasm  and  courage,  as  is  shown 
by  his  discourse  on  the  "True  Grandeur  of  Nations."  On  the  death  of  Judge- 
Story,  in  1845,  he  was  offered  the  vacant  seat  on  the  bench  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  the  United  States,  which  honor  he  persisted  in  declining.  He  was  elected  to 
the  Senate  of  the  United  States  in  1851,  to  fill  the  vacancy  created  by  the  resig- 
nation of  Daniel  Webster,  and  still  retains  that  position  (18GG). 

II. 

C2.     LANGUAGE. 

SOME  words  on  Language  may  be  well  applied  ; 
And  take  them  kindly,  though  they  touch  your  pride  : 
Words  lead  to  things  ;  a  scale  is  more  precise, — 
Coarse  speech,  bad  grammar,  swearing,  drinking,  vice. 
Our  cold  Northeaster's  icy  fetter  clips 
The  native  freedom  of  the  Saxon  lips  : 
See  the  brown  peasant  of  the  plastic  South, 
How  all  his  passions  play  about  his  mouth ! 
"With  us,  the  feature  that  transmits  the  soul, 
A  frozen,  passive,  palsied  breathing-hole. 

2.  The  crampy  shackles  of  the  ploughboy's  walk 
Tie  the  small  muscles,  when  he  strives  to  talk  ; 
Not  all  the  pumice  of  the  polished  town 
Can  smooth  this  roughness  of  the  barnyard  down 
Iiich,  honored,  titled,  he  betrays  his  race 
By  this  one  mark — he's  awkward  in  tho  face  ; — 


LANGUAGE.  233 

Nature's  rude  impress,  long  before  he  knew 
The  sunny  street  that  holds  the  sifted  few. 

3.  It  can't  be  helped,  though,  if  we're  taken  young, 
We  gain  some  freedom  of  the  lips  and  tongue  ; 
But  school  and  college  often  try  in  vain 

To  break  the  padlock  of  our  boyhood's  chain  : 
One  stubborn  word  will  prove  this  axiom  true — 
No  late-caught  rustic  can  enunciate  view  (vu). 

4.  A  few  brief  stanzas  may  be  well  employed 
To  speak  of  errors  we  can  all  avoid. 
Learning  condemns  beyond  the  reach  of  hope 
Tho  careless  churl  that  speaks  of  soap  for  soap  : 
Her  edict  exiles  from  her  fair  abode 

The  clownish  voice  that  utters  road  for  road, 
Less  stem  to  him  who  calls  his  coat  a  coat, 
And  steers  his  boat  believing  it  a  boat, 
She  pardoned  one,  our  classic  city's  boast, 
Who  said,  at  Cambridge,  most  instead  of  most ; 
But  knit  her  brows,  and  stamped  her  angry  foot, 
To  hear  a  teacher  call  a  root '  a  root.2 

5.  Once  more  :  speak  clearly,  if  you  speak  at  all ; 
Carve  every  word  before  you  let  it  fall ; 
Don't,  like  a  lecturer  or  dramatic  star, 

Try  over  hard  to  roll  the  British  E  ; 

Do  put  your  accents  in  the  proper  spot ; 

Don't— let  me  beg  you— don't  say  "  How?"  for  "  Whatf* 

And,  when  you  stick  on  conversation's  burrs, 

Don't  strew  the  pathway  with  those  dreadful  ur$S     Holmes. 

Oliver  "Wendell  Holmes,  son  of  the  late  Abiel  Holmes,  D.D.,  was  bom  at 
Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  on  the  29th  of  August,  1S09.  He  received  his  early 
education  at  Phillips  Exeter  Academy,  and  entered  Harvard  University  in  \>  - 
On  being  graduated,  after  a  year's  application  to  the  study  of  law,  he  relinquished 
it,  and  devoted  himself  with  ardor  and  industry  to  the  pursuit  of  medicine.  He 
visited  Europe  in  the  spring  of  1S33,  principally  residing  at  Paris  while  abroad, 
where  he  attended  the  hospitals,  became  personally  acquainted  with  many  of 

:  Root,  (rot).  Paying  its  place  by  the  unmeaning 

a  Root,  (rut).  syllable  "  ur,"  is  here  happily  con- 

s  Urs,  the  drawling  style  in  which  demned.     Such  habits  may  easily  be 

many  persons   are  in  tho  habit  of  corrected  by  a  little  presence  of  mind, 

talking,heedlesslyhesitatingtothink  or  by  following  the  direction,  Think 

of  a  word,  and  the  meanwhile  6iip-  twice  before  you  speak  once. 


234  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

the  most  eminent  physicians  of  France,  and  acquired  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  language.  He  returned  to  Boston  near  the  close  of  1835,  and  in  the  follow- 
ing spring  commenced  the  practice  of  medicine  in  that  city.  He  soon  acquired 
a  large  and  lucrative  practice,  and  in  1847  succeeded  Dr.  Warren  as  Professor  of 
Anatomy  in  the  medical  department  of  Harvard  University.  His  earlier  poems 
appeared  in  "  The  Collegian,"  a  monthly  miscellany,  published  in  1830,  by  the 
under-graduates  at  Cambridge.  His  longest  poem,  "  Poetry,  a  Metrical  Essay," 
was  delivered  before  a  literary  society  at  Cambridge  in  1835.  He  published 
M  Terpsichore,"  a  poem  read  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society, 
in  1843 ;  and  in  1846,  "  Urania,  a  Rhyme  Lesson,"  pronounced  before  the  Mer- 
cantile Library  Association.  Since  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly"  was  started  in  1855, 
he  has  been  a  leading  contributor,  both  in  prose  and  verse ;  and  here  first  ap- 
peared his  "  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,"  and  "  Elsie  Venner."  A  completo 
edition  of  his  poems  was  published  in  1862.  Dr.  Holmes  is  a  poet  of  art  and 
humor  and  genial  sentiment,  with  a  style  remarkable  for  its  purity,  terseness, 
and  point,  and  for  an  exquisite  finish  and  grace.  "His  lyrics  ring  and  sparkle 
like  cataracts  of  silver,  and  his  serious  pieces  arrest  the  attention  by  touches  of 
the  most  genuine  pathos  and  tenderness." 

m. 

63.     SOUND    AND    SENSE. 

THAT,  in  the  formation  of  language,  men  have  been  much 
influenced  by  a  regard  to  the  nature  of  the  things  and  ac- 
tions meant  to  be  represented,  is  a  fact  of  which  every  known 
speech  gives  proof.  In  our  own  language,  for  instance,  who  does 
not  perceive  in  the  sound  of  the  words  thunder,  boundless,  terri- 
ble, a  something  appropriate  to  the  sublime  ideas  intended  to  be 
conveyed  ?  In  the  word  crash  we  hear  the  very  action  implied. 
Imp,  elf, — how  descriptive  of  the  miniature  beings  to  which  we 
apply  them !  Fairy, — how  light  and  tripping,  just  like  the  fairy 
herself ! — the  word,  no  more  than  the  thing,  seems  fit  to  bend 
the  grass-blade,  or  shake  the  tear  from  the  blue-eyed  flower. 

2.  Pea  is  another  of  those  words  expressive  of  light,  diminu- 
tive objects  ;  any  man  born  without  sight  and  touch,  if  such 
ever  are,  could  tell  what  kind  of  thing  a  pea  was  from  the 
sound  of  the  word  alone.  Of  picturesque1  words,  sylvan  and 
crystal  are  among  our  greatest  favorites.  Sylvan  I — what  vis- 
ions of  beautiful  old  sunlit  forests,  with  huntsmen  and  bugle- 
horns,  arise  at  the  sound!  Crystal! — does  it  not  glitter  like 
the  very  thing  it  stands  for  ?  Yet  crystal  is  not  so  beautiful  as 
its  own  adjective.      Crystalline  ! — why,  the  whole  mind  is  light- 

1  Picf  ur  Ssque',  expressing  that  peculiar  kind  of  beauty  that  is  pleas- 
ing in  a  picture,  natural  or  artificial. 


SOUND    AND    SENSE.  235 

ened  up  with  its  shine.  And  this  superiority  is  as  it  should  be  ; 
for  crystal  can  only  bo  one  comparatively  small  object,  -while 
crystalline  may  refer  to  a  mass — to  a  world  of  crystals. 

3.  It  will  be  found  that  natural  objects  have  a  larger  propor- 
tion of  expressive  names  among  them  than  any  other  things. 
The  eagle, — what  appropriate  daring  and  sublimity !  the  dove, — 
what  softness !  the  linnet, — what  fluttering  gentleness !  "  That 
which  men  call  a  rose"  would  not  by  any  other  name,  or  at  least 
by  many  other  names,  smell  as  sweet.  Lily, — what  tall,  cool, 
pale,  lady-like  beauty  have  we  here!  Violet,  jessamine,  hya- 
cinth, a-nem'onc,  geranium ! — beauties,  all  of  them,  to  the  ear  as 
well  as  the  eye. 

4.  The  names  of  the  precious  stones  have  also  a  beauty  and 
magnificence  above  most  common  things.  Diamond,  sajtpfiire, 
am'ethyst,  btr'yl,  ruby,  ag'ate,  pearl,  jasper,  topaz,  garnet,  cnvrald, 
— what  a  caskanet  of  sparkling  sounds!  Diadem  and  coronet 
glitter  with  gold  and  precious  stones,  like  the  objects  they  rep- 
resent. It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  bring  forward  instances  of 
the  fine  things  which  are  represented  in  English  by  fine  words. 
Let  us  take  any  sublime  passage  of  our  poetry,  and  we  shall 
hardly  find  a  word  which  is  inappropriate  in  sound.  For  ex- 
ample : — 

The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack l  behind. 

The  "gorgeous  palaces,"  "the  solemn  temples," — how  ad'mira- 
bly  do  these  lofty  sounds  harmonize  with  the  objects ! 

5.  The  relation  between  the  sound  and  sense  of  certain  words 
is  to  be  ascribed  to  more  than  ono  cause.  Many  are  evidently 
imitative  representations  of  the  things,  movements,  and  acts, 
which  are  meant  to  bo  expressed.  Others,  in  which  we  only 
find  a  general  relation,  as  between  a  beautiful  thing,  and  a  beau- 
tiful word,  a  ridiculous  thing  and  a  ridiculous  word,  or  a  sublime 
idea  and  a  sublime  word,  must  be  attributed  to  those  faculties, 

1  Rack, properly, moisture  ;  clamp-  quently  read,  "Leave  not  a  wreck 

ness ;    hence,    thin,    flying,    broken  behind."     It  is  manifest,   however, 

clouds,  or  any  portion  of  floating  that  Shakspeare  wrote  rack,  a  more 

vapor  in  the  sky.     This  line  is  fre-  poetical  and  descriptive  epithet. 


236  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

native  to  every  mind,  which  enable  us  to  perceive  and  enjoy  the 
beautiful,  the  ridiculous,  and  the  sublime. 

6.  Doctor  Wallis,  who  wrote  upon  English  grammar  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  II.,  represented  it  as  a  peculiar  excellence  of 
our  language,  that,  beyond  all  others,  it  expressed  the  nature  of 
the  objects  which  it  names,  by  employing  sounds  sharper,  softer, 
weaker,  stronger,  more  obscure,  or  more  stridulous,1  according 
as  the  idea  which  is  to  be  suggested  requires.  He  gives  various 
examples.  Thus,  words  formed  upon  st  always  deuote  firmness 
and  strength,  analogous2  to  the  Latin  sto  ;  as,  stand,  stay,  staff, 
stop,  stout,  steady,  stake,  stamp,  &c. 

7.  Words  beginning  with  str  intimate  violent  force  and  energy ; 
as,  strive,  strength,  stress,  stripe,  &c.  TJir  implies  forcible  mo- 
tion :  as,  throw,  throb,  thrust,  threaten,  thraldom,  thrill :  gl, 
smoothness  or  silent  motion  ;  as,  glib,  glide  :  tor,  obliquity  or 
distortion  ;  as,  wry,  wrest,  wrestle,  wring,  wrong,  wrangle,  wrath, 
&c. :  siv,  silent  agitation,  or  lateral 3  motion  ;  as  sway,  swing, 
swerve,  sweep,  swim  :  si,  a  gentle  fall  or  less  observable  motion  ; 
as,  slide,  slip,  sly,  slit,  slow,  slack,  sling  :  sp,  dissipation  or  ex- 
pansion ;  as,  spread,  sprout,  sprinkle,  split,  spill,  spring. 

8.  Terminations  in  ash  indicate  something  acting  nimbly  and 

sharply  ;  as,  crash,  dash,  rash,  flash,  lash,  slash  :  terminations  in 

ash,  something  acting  more  obtusely  and  dully ;  as,  crush,  brush, 

hush,  gush,  blush.     The  learned  author  produces  a  great  many 

more  examples  of  the  same  kind,  which  seem  to  leave  no  doubt 

that  the  analogies  of  sound  ha've  had  some  influence  on  the 

formation  of  words.     At  the  same  time,  in  all  speculations  of 

this  kind,  there  is  so  much  room  for  fancy  to  operate,  that  they 

ought  to  be  adopted  with  much  caution  in  forming  any  general 

theory.  Chambers. 

Robert  Chambers,  a  noted  Scottish  writer  and  publisher,  remarkable  for  his 
energy  and  industry,  -was  born  in  1801.  He,  with  his  brother  William,  com- 
menced trade  in  book-shops  in  Edinburgh ;  and,  subsequently,  became  author 
and  publisber.  The  brothers  arc  completely  identified  with  the  cheap  and  useful 
literature  of  the  day,  in  this  country,  as  well  as  in  the  United  Kingdom. 

1  Strid'  u  lous,  making  a  creaking  form,  design,  effects,  etc.,  or  in  the 
Bound.  relations  borne  to  other  objects. 

2  A  nal'  o  gous,  correspondent ;  s  Lat'  er  al,  pertaining  or  belong- 
having  a  similarity  with  regard  to  ing  to  the  sido  ;  from  side  to  side. 


THE    POWER    OF    WORDS.  237 

IV. 

64.     THE    POWER    OF  WORDS. 

WORDS  arc  most  effective  when  arranged  in  that  order 
which  is  called  style.  The  great  secret  of  a  good  style, 
we  are  told,  is  to  have  proper  words  in  proper  places.  To  mar- 
shal one's  verbal  battalions  in  such  order  that  they  must  bear 
at  once  upon  all  quarters  of  a  subject,  is  certainly  a  great  art. 
This  is  done  in  different  ways.  Swift,1  Temple,2  Addison,  Hume,3 
Gibbon,  Johnson,  Burke,*  are  all  great  generals  in  the  discipline 
of  their  verbal  armies,  and  the  conduct  of  their  paper  wars. 
Each  has  a  system  of  tactics  of  his  own,  and  excels  in  the  use 
of  some  particular  weapon. 

2.  The  tread  of  Johnson's  style  is  heavy  and  sonorous,  resem- 
bling that  of  an  elephant  or  a  mail-clad  warrior.  He  is  fond  of 
leveling  an  obstacle  by  a  polysyllabic  battering-ram.  Burke's 
words  are  continually  practicing  the  broad  sword  exercise,  and 
sweeping  down  adversaries  with  every  stroke.  Arbuthnot,1' 
"  plays  his  weapon  like  a  tongue  of  flame."  Addison  draws  up 
his  light  infantry  in  orderly  array,  and  marches  through  sen- 
tence after  sentence,  without  having  his  ranks  disordered  or  his 
line  broken. 

3.  Luther0  is  different.  His  words  arc  "half  battle;"  "his 
smiting  idiomatic  phrases  seem  to  cleave  into  the  very  secret  of 

1  Jonathan  Swift,  of  English  de-  Edinburgh,    Scotland,    April    2Gtli, 

scent,  author  of  the"  Travels  of  Lem-  1711,  and  died  in  August,  177G. 

uel  Gulliver,"  was  born  at  Dublin,  in  *  Edmund   Burke,    a    celebrated 

November,  1GG7.     In  the  spring  of  British  orator,  statesman,  and  philos- 

1713  he  was  appointed  Dean  of  St.  ophcr,  was  born  at  Dublin,  Jan.  1st, 

Patrick's  Cathedral  in  Dublin.    As  a  1730,  and  died  July  8th,  1797. 

writer  of  plain,  pure,  vigorous,  idio-  6  John   Arbuthnot,    an    eminent 

matic  English,  Swift  had  no  equal ;  English  physician  of  the  17th  cen- 

and  he  had  hardly  any  superior  as  a  tury,  but  more  distinguished   as  a 

satirist.     He  died  in  October,  1745.  man  of  wit  and  letters  ;  the  associate 

3  Sir  William  Temple,  an  eminent  of  Popeand  Swift,  and  the  companion 

statesman  and  writer,  born  at  Lon-  of  Bolingbroke  at  the  court  of  Queen 

don,  in  1628,  and  died  in  1700.  Anne  :  born  in  1G75,  and  died  in  1735. 

3  David  Hume,  one  of  the  most  6  Martin  Luther,  the  great  Ger- 

celebrated  historians   and    philoso-  man  reformer,  was  born  November 

phers  of  Great  Britain,  author  of  a  10th,  1483,  and  died  on  the  18th  of 

"Historv  of  England,"  was  born  at  February,  1546. 


238  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

the  matter."  Gibbon's  legions  are  heavily  armed,  and  march 
with  precision  and  dignity  to  the  music  of  their  own  tramp. 
They  are  splendidly  equipped,  but  a  nice  eye  can  discern  a  little 
rust  beneath  their  fine  apparel,  and  there  are  suttlers  in  his 
camp  who  lie,  cog,  and  talk  gross  obscenity.  Macaulay,  brisk, 
livery,  keen,  and  energetic,  runs  his  thoughts  rapidly  through 
his  sentence,  and  kicks  out  of  the  way  every  word  which 
obstructs  his  passage.  He  reins  in  his  steed  only  when  he  has 
reached  his  goal,  and  then  does  it  with  such  celerity  that  he  is 
nearly  thrown  backward  by  the  suddenness  of  his  stoppage. 

4.  Gifford's '  words  are  moss-troopers,  that  waylay  innocent 
travelers  and  murder  them  for  hire.  Jeffrey  is  a  fine  ''lance," 
with  a  sort  of  Ar'ab  swiftness  in  his  movement,  and  runs  an 
iron-clad  horseman  through  the  eye  before  he  has  had  time  to 
close  his  helmet.  John  Wilson's2  camp  is  a  disorganized  mass, 
who  might  do  effectual  service  under  better  discipline,  but  who 
under  his  lead  are  suffered  to  carry  on  a  rambling  and  predatory 
warfare,  and  disgrace  their  general  by  flagitious  excesses.  Some- 
times they  steal,  sometimes  swear,  sometimes  drink,  and  some- 
times pray. 

5.  Swift's  words  are  porcupine's  quills,  which  he  throws  with 
unerring  aim  at  whoever  approaches  his  lair.  All  of  Ebenezer 
Elliot's 3  words  are  gifted  with  huge  fists,  to  pummel  and  bruise. 
Chatham4  and  Mirabeau5  throw  hot  shot  into  their  opponents' 
magazines.  Talfourd's6  forces  are  orderly  and  disciplined,  and 
march  to  the  music  of  the  Dorian  flute  ;  those  of  Keats7  keep 
time  to  the  tones  of  the  pipe  of  Phcebus  ; 8  and  the  hard,  harsh- 

1  William   Gifford,   a    celebrated  greatest  orators  and  writers  of  France, 

English  writer,  was  born  in  1756,  and  a  leader  of  the  revolution,  was 

and  died  in  182G.  born  in  1749,  and  died  in  1791. 

8  John  Wilson,  a  well-known  and  6  Thomas  Noon  Talfourd,  an  able 

very  eminent  Scottish  writer,  was  English  poet  and  prose  writer,  an 

born  in  1785,  and  died  in  1854.  advocate,  judge,  and  member  of  Par- 

8  Ebenezer  Elliot,  a  genuine  poet,  liament,beloved  for  his  social  virtues, 

the  celebrated  "  Corn  Law  Rhymer,"  was  born  in  1795,  and  died  in  1854. 

was  born  in  1781,  and  died  in  1849.  7  John  Keats,  a  true  poet,  born  in 

4  Chatham,  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  London,  in  1796,  and  died  at  Rome, 

Chatham,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  in  1820. 

of  British  statesmen    and  orators,  8  Phoebus,  the  Bright  or  Pure,  an 

born  November  15th,  1708,  and  died  epithet  of  Apollo,  used  to  signify  the 

May  11th,  1778.  brightness  and  purity  of  youth,  also 

*  Mirabeau,  (meNra  bo'),  one  of  the  applied  to  him  as  the  Sun-god. 


THE    POWER    OF    WORDS  1>,'J9 

featured  battalions  of  Maginn,1  are  always  preceded  by  a  brass 
band.  Hallam's*  word-infantry  can  do  much  execution,  when 
they  are  not  in  each  other's  way.  Pope's  phrases  are  cither 
daggers  or  rapiers. 

6.  Willis's  words  are  often  tipsy  with  the  champagne  of  the 
fancy,  but  even  when  they  reel  and  stagger  they  keep  the  line 
of  grace  and  beauty,  and  though  scattered  at  first  by  a  fierce 
onset  from  graver  cohorts,  soon  reunite  without  wound  or  loss.j 
John  Neal's  forces  are  multitudinous,  and  fire  briskly  at  every 
thing.  They  occupy  all  the  provinces  of  letters,  and  are  nearly 
useless  from  being  spread  over  too  much  ground.  Everett's 
weapons  are  ever  kept  in  good  order,  and  shine  well  in  the  sun, 
but  they  are  little  calculated  for  warfare,  and  rarely  kill  when 
they  strike.  Webster's  words  are  thunder-bolts,  which  some- 
times miss  the  Titans  at  whom  they  are  hurled,  but  always  leave 
enduring  marks  when  they  strike. 

7.  Hazlitt's1  verbal  army  is  sometimes  drunk  and  surly,  some- 
times foaming  with  passion,  sometimes  cool  and  malignant ;  but 
drunk  or  sober,  are  ever  dangerous  to  cope  with.  Some  of  Tom 
Moore's  words  are  shining  dirt,  which  he  flings  with  excellent 
aim.  This  hst  might  be  indefinitely  extended,  and  arranged 
with  more  regard  to  merit  and  chronology.  My  own  words,  in 
this  connection,  might  be  compared  to  ragged,  undisciplined 
militia,  wThich  could  be  easily  routed  by  a  charge  of  horse,  and 
which  are  apt  to  fire  into  each  other's  faces.  WnirpLE. 

E.  P.  Wniri'LE,  one  of  the  youngest  and  most  brilliant  of  American  writers, 
was  born  in  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  on  tbe  8th  of  March,  1B11>.  "When  four 
years  of  age,  his  family  removed  to  Salem,  ■where  he  attended  various  schools 
until  he  was  fifteen,  when  he  entered  the  Bank  of  General  Interest  in  that  city 
as  a  clerk.  In  his  eighteenth  year,  he  went  to  Boston,  where  he  has  ever  since 
been  occupied  mainly  with  commercial  pursuits.  Although,  from  the  age  of 
fourteen,  Mr.  Whipple  has  been  a  writer  for  the  press,  occasionally  writing  re- 
markably well,  he  was  only  known  as  a  writer  to  his  few  associates  and  confidants 
until  1843,  when  he  published  in  the  Boston  Miscellany  a  paper  on  Macaulay, 
rivaling  in  analysis,  and  reflection,  and  richness  of  diction,  the  best  productions 

1  William  Maginn,  L.L.D.,  an  able  ar,  one  of  the  greatest   British  his- 

British  writer  of  prose  and  poetry,  a  torians,  author  of  "  View  of  the  State 

frequentcontributor  to  "Blackwood's  of  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages," 

Magazine,"  the  founder  of  "  Frazer's  born  in  1TT7,  and  died  Jan.  21st,  18o9. 

Magazine,"   was  born   at   Cork,   in  s  William  Hazlitt,  a  well-known 

1794,   and    died    at    Walton-on-the  and  very  able  British  essayist  and 

Thames,  in  1842.  critic  of  art  and  poetry,  born  in  1778, 

*  Henry  Hallam,  a  profound  schol-  and  died  in  1830. 


240  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

of  that  brilliant  essayist.  He  has  since  published,  in  the  North  American  lie- 
view,  articles  on  the  Puritans,  American  Poets,  Daniel  Webster  as  an  Author, 
Old  English  Dramatists,  British  Critics,  South's  Sermons,  Byron,  Wordsworth, 
Talfourd,  Sydney  Smith,  and  other  subjects;  in  the  American  Review,  on 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  English  Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century,  etc. ;  and  in 
other  periodicals,  essays  and  reviewals  enough  to  form  several  volumes.  As  a 
critic,  he  writes  with  keen  discrimination,  cheerful  confidence,  and  unhesitating 
freedom ;  illustrating  truth  with  almost  unerring  precision,  and  producing  a  fair 
and  distinct  impression  of  an  author.  His  style  is  sensuous,  flowing,  and  idio- 
matic, abounding  in  unforced  antitheses,  apt  illustrations,  and  natural  grace. 

V. 

65.     FROM    THE    ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM. 

~YXT"KOEVER  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  sec 

V  V      Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 
In  every  work  regard  the  writer's  end, 
Since  none  can  compass  more  than  they  intend  ; 
And,  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true, 
Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is  due. 
As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit, 
To  avoid  great  errors  must  the  less  commit ; 
Neglect  the  rules  each  verbal  critic  lays  ; 
For  not  to  know  some  trifles,  is  a  praise. 
Most  critics,  fond  of  some  subservient  art, 
Still  make  the  whole  depend  upon  a  part : 
They  talk  of  principles,  but  notions  prize, 
And  all  to  one  loved  folly  sacrifice. 

2.  Some  to  conceit  alone  their  taste  confine, 

And  glittering  thoughts  struck  out  at  every  line  ; 

Pleased  with  a  work  where  nothing's  just  or  fit ; 

One  glaring  chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 

Poets,  like  painters,  thus  unskilled  to  trace 

The  naked  nature,  and  the  living  grace, 

With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part. 

And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 

True  wit  is  Nature  to  advantage  dressed, 

What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed ; 

Something,  whoso  truth  convinced  at  sight  we  find, 

That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 

As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light, 

So  modest  plainness  sefes  off  sprightly  wit ; 


FROM    THE    ESSAY    ON    CRITICISM.  '241 

For  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  them  good, 
As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of  blood. 

3.  Others  for  language  all  their  care  express, 
And  value  books,  as  women  men — for  dress  : 
Their  praise  is  still — the  style  is  excellent : 
The  sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 

Words  are  like  leaves  ;  and  where  they  most  abound, 

Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 

False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass, 

Its  gaudy  colors  spreads  on  every  place  ; 

The  face  of  Nature  we  no  more  survey, 

All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay  : 

But  true  expression,  like  the  unchanging  sun, 

Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon  ; 

It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 

4.  Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still 
Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable  : 

A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  expressed, 

Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dressed  ; 

For  different  styles  with  different  subjects  sort, 

As  several  garbs,  with  country,  town,  and  court. 

In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold  ; 

Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new  or  old  : 

Be  not  the  first  bv  whom  the  new  are  tried, 

Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

5.  But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song  ; 

And  smooth  or  rough,  with  them,  is  right  or  wrong. 
In  the  bright  Muse  though  thousand  charms  conspire, 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire  ; 
"Who  haunt  Parnassus '  but  to  please  their  ear, 
Not  mend  their  minds  ;  as  some  to  church  repair, 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  thero. 
These,  equal  syllables  alone  require, 
Though  oft  the  ear  tho  open  vowels  tire  ; 
"While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join, 
And  ten  slow  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  lino  : 
"While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes, 
"With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes  ; 


1  Par  nas'  sus,  a  celebrated  mountain  in  Greece,  considered  in  mythology 
as  sacred  to  Apollo  and  the  Muses.  11 


242  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Where'er  you  find  the  "  cooling  western  breeze," 

In  the  next  line  it  "whispers  through  the  trees  :" 

If  crystal  streams  "  with  pleasing  murmurs  creep,' 

The  reader's  threatened  (not  in  Tain)  with  "  sleep  :' 

Then  at  the  last  and  only  couplet,  fraught 

With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 

A  needless  Alexandrine  1  ends  the  song, 

That,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

6.  Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know 
What's  roundly  smooth  or  languishingly  slow  ; 

And  praise  the  easy  vigor  of  a  line, 

Where  Denham's2  strength  and  Waller's3  sweetness  join. 

True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 

As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 

Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence  ; 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense  : 

Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 

And  the  cool  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows  ; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

7.  When  Ajax4  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw; 
The  line  too  labors,  and  the  words  move  slow  : 

Not  so  when  swift  Camilla 6  scours  the  plain, 

Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main  : 

Hear  how  Timutheiis' G  varied  lays  surprise, 

Aud  bids  altern'ate  passions  fall  and  rise  ! 

While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove T 


i  Al  ex  an'  drine,  a  verso  or  lino  num,  was  one  of  the  swift-footed  ser 

of  twelve  syllables,  so  called  from  a  vants  of  Diana,  accustomed  to  the 

poem  written  in  French,  on  the  life  chase  and  to  war.    Virgil  represents 

of  Alexander.  her  as  so  swift  and  light  of  foot,  that 

3  Sir  J.  Denham,  an  English  wri-  she  could  run  over  a  field  of  corn  with- 

ter  of  verse,  born  in  1C15,  and  died  out  bending  the  stalks,  or  over  the 

in  1GG8.  sea  without  wetting  her  feet. 

3  Edmund  Waller,  one  of  the  most  c  Ti  mo'  the  us,  a  fr  mous  musician 
famous  of  the  early  English  poets,  and  poet,  born  at  Miletus,  B.  C.  446, 
born  in  1G03,  and  died  in  1G8T.  and  died  in   357,  in  the   ninetieth 

4  Ajax,  one  of  the  Grecian  princes  year  of  his  age.  Also  the  name  of  a 
in  the  Trojan  war,  and,  next  to  distinguished  flute-player,  the  favor- 
Achilles,  the  bravest.  ite  of  Alexander  the  Great. 

6  Camilla.,  daughter  of  King  Meta-  7  Son  of  Libyan  Jove,   a   name 

bus,  of  the  Volsoian  town  of  Triver-  which  Alexander  theGreatarrogated. 


PARALLEL  BETWEEN  POPE  AND  DRYDEN.    213 

Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love  ; 

Now  his  tierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow  ; 

Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow  : 

Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found, 

And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdued  by  sound.  Por-E. 

Alexander  PorE,  the  poet,  to  whom  English  poetry  and  the  English  language 
are  greatly  Indebted,  was  born  May  22d,  1688,  In  London.  He  was  a  very  sickly 
child;  and  his  bodily  infirmities  remained  through  life.  He  never  grew  to  be 
taller  than  about  four  feet;  and  his  deformity  and  weakness  of  limbs  were  so 
great,  that,  for  several  years  before  his  death,  he  could  not  dress  or  undress  him- 
self. Yet,  after  his  twelfth  year,  he  attended  no  school,  but  educated  himself. 
The  whole  of  his  early  life  was  that  of  a  severe  6tudent.  lie  was  a  poet  in 
infancy.  The  "Ode  to  Solitude"  dates  from  his  twelfth  yc~r.  At  the  age  of 
sixteen  he  wrote  his  Rutonzfc,  and  his  imitation  of  Chaucer.  lie  soon  became 
acquainted  with  most  of  the  eminent  persons  of  the  day,  both  In  politics  and 
literature.  His  "  Essay  on  Criticism,"  which  was  composed  when  he  was  only 
twenty-one,  is  regarded  by  many  as  the  finest  piece  of  argumentative  poetry  In 
the  English  language.  His  celebrity  was  effectually  and  deservedly  secured  in 
1712,  by  his  first  edition  of  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock."  He  soon  after  published 
"The  Messiah,"  "The  Temple  of  Fame,"  "Ode  on  St.  Cecilia's  Day,"  and 
"  Windsor  Forest."  His  translation  of  the  Iliad,  published  by  subscription, 
from  1715  to  1720,  produced  to  the  author  more  than  £5,000.  His  edition  of 
Bhakspeare,  and  his  Odyssey,  appeared  in  1725.  The  "Essay  on  Man,"  and 
several  other  valuable  poems,  appeared  in  1738.  He  died  In  May,  1744.  For  a 
description  of  Pope's  fine  poetic  endowments,  sec  the  next  exercise. 

VI. 

GG.     PARALLEL    BETWEEN    POPE    AND    DRYDEN. 

POPE  professed  to  have  learned  Lis  poetry  from  Dryden, 
whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  was  presented,  he  praised 
through  his  whole  life  wife  unvaried  liberality  ;  and  perhaps  his 
character  may  receive  some  illustration,  if  he  be  compared  with 
his  master. 

2.  Integrity  of  understanding,  and  nicety  of  discernment,  were 
not  allotted  in  a  ^?ss  proportion  to  Dryden  than  to  Pope.  The 
rectitude  of  Dryden's  mind  was  sufficiently  shown  by  the  dis- 
mission of  his  poetical  prejudices,  and  the  rejection  of  unnatural 
thoughts  and  rugged  numbers.  But  Dryden  never  desired  to 
apply  all  the  judgment  that  he  had.  He  wrote,  and  professed 
to  write,  merely  for  the  people  ;  and  when  he  pleased  others, 
he  contented  himself. 

3.  He  spent  no  time  in  struggles  to  rouse  latent  j)Owers  ;  ho 
never  attempted  to  make  that  better  which  was  already  good, 
nor  often  to  mend  what  he  must  havo  known  to  be  faulty.     He 


244  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

wrote,  as  he  tells  us,  with  very  little  consideration  :  when  occa- 
sion or  necessity  called  upon  him,  ho  poured  out  what  the  pres- 
ent moment  happened  to  supply,  and,  when  once  it  had  passed 
the  press,  ejected  it  from  his  mind  ;  for,  when  he  had  no  pecu- 
niary interest  he  had  no  further  solicitude. 

4.  Pope  was  not  content  to  satisfy  ;  he  desired  to  excel,  and 
therefore  always  endeavored  to  do  his  best ;  he  did  not  court 
the  candor,  but  dared  the  judgment  of  his  reader,  and,  expecting 
no  indulgence  from  others,  he  showed  none  to  himself.  He  ex- 
amined lines  and  words  with  minute  and  punctilious  observa- 
tion, and  retouched  every  part  with  indefatigable  diligence,  till 
he  had  left  nothing  (nuth'ing)  to  be  forgiven. 

5.  For  this  reason  he  kept  his  pieces  very  long  in  his  hands, 
while  he  considered  and  reconsidered  them.  The  only  poems 
which  can  be  supposed  to  have  been  written  with  such  regard 
to  the  times  as  might  hasten  their  publication,  were  the  two 
satires  of  Thirty-eight :  of  which  Dodsley '  told  me,  that  they 
were  brought  to  him  by  the  author,  that  they  might  be  fairly 
copied.  "Every  line,"  said  he,  "was  then  written  twice  over  : 
I  gave  him  a  clean  transcript,  which  he  sent  some  time  after- 
ward to  me  for  the  press,  with  every  line  written  twice  over  a 
second  time." 

6.  His  declaration,  that  his  care  for  his  works  ceased  at  their 
publication,  was  not  strictly  true.  His  parental  attention  never 
abandoned  them  :  what  he  found  amiss  in  the  first  edition,  he 
silently  corrected  in  those  that  followed.  He  appears  to  have 
revised  the  Hi'dd,  and  freed  it  from  some  of  its  imperfections  ; 
and  the  Essay  on  Criticism  received  many  improvements  after 
its  first  appearance.  It  will  seldom  be  found  that  he  altered 
without  adding  clearness,  elegance,  or  vigor  Pope  had  per- 
haps the  judgment  of  Dryden  ;  but  Dryden  certainly  wanted 
the  diligence  of  Pope. 

7.  In  acquired  knowledge,  the  superiority  must  be  allowed  to 
Dryden,  whose  education  was  more  scholastic,  and  who,  before 
he  became  an  author,  had  been  allowed  more  time  for  study, 
with  better  means  of  information.  His  mind  has  a  larger  range, 
and  he  collects  his  images  and  illustrations  from  a  more  exten- 
sive circumference  of  science.     Dryden  knew  more  of  man  in 

1  Robert  Dodsley,  an  able  miscellaneous  ■writer  and  well-known  London 
bookseller,  was  born  at  Mansfield,  1703,  and  died  1764. 


PARALLEL    BETWEEN    POPE    AND    DRYDEN.  2-45 

his  general  nature,  and  Pope  in  his  local  manners.  The  notions 
of  Dryden  were  formed  by  comprehensive  speculation,  and  those 
of  Pope  by  minute  attention.  There  is  more  dignity  in  the 
knowledge  of  Dryden,  and  more  certainty  in  that  of  Pope. 

8.  Poetry  was  not  the  sole  praise  of  either  ;  for  both  excelled 
likewise  in  prose  ;  but  Pope  did  not  borrow  his  prose  from  his 
predecessor.  The  stylo  of  Dryden  is  capricious  and  varied  ;  that 
of  Pope  is  cautious  and  uniform.  Dryden  obeys  the  motions  of 
his  own  mind  ;  Pope  constrains  his  mind  to  his  own  rules  of 
composition.  Dryden  is  sometimes  ve'hement  and  rajnd  ;  Pope 
is  always  smooth,  uniform,  and  gentle.  Dryden's  page  is  a  nat- 
ural field,  rising  into  inequalities,  and  diver'sified  by  the  varied 
exuberance  of  abundant  vegetation  ;  Pope's  is  a  velvet  lawn, 
shaven  by  the  scythe,  and  leveled  by  the  roller. 

9.  Of  genius, — that  power  which  constitutes  a  poet — that 
quality  without  which  judgment  is  cold,  and  knowledge  is  inert 
— -that  energy  which  collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates, 
— the  superiority  must,  with  some  hesitation,  bo  allowed  to  Dry- 
den. It  is  not  to  be  inferred,  that  of  this  poetical  vigor  Pope 
had  only  a  little,  because  Dryden  had  more  ;  for  every  other 
writer  since  Milton  must  give  place  to  Pope  ;  and  even  of  Dry- 
den it  must  be  said,  that  if  he  has  brighter  paragraphs,  he  has 
not  better  poems. 

10.  Dryden's  performances  were  always  hasty,  either  excited 
by  some  external  occasion  or  extorted  by  domestic  necessity  ; 
he  composed  without  consideration,  and  published  without  cor- 
rection. What  his  mind  could  supply  at  call,  or  gather  in  one 
excursion,  was  all  that  he  sought,  and  all  that  he  gave.  The 
dilatory  caution  of  Pope  enabled  him  to  condense  his  sentiments, 
to  multiply  his  images,  and  to  accumulate  all  that  study  might 
produce,  or  chance  might  supply.  If  the  flights  of  Dryden, 
therefore,  are  higher,  Pope  continues  longer  on  the  wing.  If  of 
Dryden's  fire  the  blaze  is  brighter,  of  Pope's  the  heat  is  more 
regular  and  constant.  Dryden  often  surpasses  expectation,  and 
Pope  never  falls  below  it.  Dryden  is  read  with  frequent  aston- 
ishment, and  Pope  with  perpetual  delight. 

11.  This  parallel  will,  I  hope,  when  it  is  well  considered,  be 
found  just  ;  and  if  the  reader  should  suspect  me,  as  I  suspect 
myself,  of  some  partial  fondness  for  the  memory  of  Dryden,  let 
him  not  too  hastily  condemn  me  ;  for  meditation  and  inqui'ry 


246  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

may,  psrhap3,  sliow  hiin  the  reasonableness  of  ray  determin- 
ation. Johnson. 

Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  greatest,  of  the  literary 
men  of  the  eighteenth  century,  was  born  at  LitchQeld,  England,  on  the  ISth  of 
September,  1700.     In  the  child,  the  peculiarities  which  afterward  distinguished 
the  man  were  plainly  discernible ;— great  muscular  strength,  accompanied  by 
much  awkwardness,  and  many  iutirmitics  ;  great  quickness  of  parts,  with  a  mor- 
bid propensity  to  sloth  and  procrastination;  a  kind  and  generous  heart,  with  a 
gloomy  and  irritable  temper.     Indolent  as  he  was,  he  acquired  knowledge  with 
such  ease  and  rapidity,  that  at  every  school  to  which  he  was  sent  he  was  soon  the 
best  scholar.     From  sixteen  to  eighteen  he  resided  at  home,  and  learned  much, 
though  his  studies  were  without  guidance  and  without  plan.     When  the  young 
scholar  presentod  himself  at  Pembroke  College,  Oxford,  he  amazed  the  rulers  of 
that  society  not  more  by  his  ungainly  figure  and  eccentric  manners  than  by  tho 
quantity  of  his  extensive  and  curious  information.     "While  here,  he  early  made 
himself  known  by  turning  Pope's  Messiah  into  Latin  verse.    He  was  poor,  how- 
ever, even  to  raggedness  ;  and  his  appearance  excited  a  mirth  and  a  pity  which 
were  equally  intolerable  to  his  haughty  spirit.    After  residing  at  Oxford  about 
three  years,  Johnson's  resources  failed;  and  he  was  under  the  necessity  of  quit- 
ting the  university  without  a  degree,  in  the  autumn  of  1731.    In  the  following 
winter  his  father  died.     The  old  man  left  but  a  pittance;  and  of  that  pittance, 
Samuel  received  not  more  than  twenty  pounds.    He  became  usher  of  a  grammar- 
school  in  Leicestershire ;  he  soon  after  married,  took  a  house  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  his  native  town,  and  advertised  for  pupils.    But  eighteen  months  passed 
away,  and  only  three  pupils  came  to  his  academy,  one  of  whom  was  the  cele- 
brated David  Garrick.    At  length,  in  the  twenty-eighth  year  of  his  age,  he  went 
to  London  to  seek  his  fortune  as  a  literary  adventurer.    Some  time  elapsed  before 
he  was  able  to  form  any  literary  connection  from  which  he  could  expect  more 
than  bread  for  the  day  that  was  passing  over  him.    The  effect  of  the  privations 
and  sufferings  which  he  endured  at  this  time  was  discernible  to  the  last  in  his 
temper  and  deportment.     His  manners  had  never  been  courtly.    They  now  be- 
came almost  savage.    About  a  year  after  Johnson  had  begun  to  reside  in  London, 
he  fortunately  obtained  regular  employment  as  a  reporter,  or  rather  writer  of 
parliamentary  speeches  for  the  "  Gentleman's  Magazine."    A  few  weeks  after  he 
had  entered  on  these  obscure  labors,  he  published  a  stately  and  vigorous  poem, 
entitled  "  London,"  which  at  once  placed  him  high  among  the  writers  of  his 
age.    From  this  period  till  1763  he  was  subjected  to  anxiety  and  drudgery ;  and 
was  only  able  to  gain  a  bare  subsistence  by  the  most  intense  daily  toil.    This 
was,  however,  in  part  owing  to  his  having  been  singularly  unskillful  and  un- 
lucky in  his  literary  bargains,  as  in  the  mean  time  he  had  published  the  "Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes,"  in  1740;  a  "Dictionary  of  the  English  Language,"  in  1755;( 
and  "  Rassclas,"  in  1750.     He  also  published  a  paper,  entitled  the  "  Rambler," 
every  Tuesday  and  Saturday,  from  March,  1750,  to  March,  1753;  and  a  series  of 
weekly  essays,  entitled  "The  Idler,"  for  two  years,  commencing  in  the  spring- 
of  175*3.     Able  judges  have  pronounced  these  periodicals  equal,  if  not  superior 
to  the  "  Speetator."    In  1703,  through  the  influence  of  Lord  Bute,  he  received 
a  pension  of  £300  a  year;  and  from  t'.iat  period  a  great  change  in  his  circum- 
stances took  place.     The  University  of  Oxford  honored  him  with  a  doctor's  de- 
gree, and  the  Royal  Academy  with  a  professorship.     I!e  was  now  free  to  indulge 
his  constitutional  idleness;  still,  though  he  wrote  but  little,  his  tongUO  was 
active.    The  influence  exercised  by  his  conversation,  directly  upon  the  members 
of  the  celebrated  olub  over  which  he  predominated,  and  iudircctly  upon  the 


CHARGE  AGAINST  LORD  BYRON.         247 

■whole  literary  world,  was  altogether  without  a  parallel.  Tlis  colloquial  powers 
•were  of  the  highest  order,  lie  had  6trong  sense,  quick  discernment,  humor, 
wit,  immense  knowledge  of  literature  and  of  life,  and  an  infinite  store  of  curious 
anecdotes.  Every  sentence  that  fell  from  h'13  lips  was  correct  in  structure.  All 
was  simplicity,  ease,  and  vigor.  Of  all  his  numerous  writings,  those  that  arc 
now  most  popular  are  the  "  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes"  and  the  "  Lives  of  the. 
Poets."  In  a  serene  frame  of  mind,  he  died  on  the  13th  of  Dcccmher,  17S4  5 
and  a  week  later  was  laid  in  Wcstmiuster  Abbey. 


SECTION    XIII. 
I. 

G7.  CHARGE  AGAINST  LORD  BYRON. 

THE  charge  we  bring  against  Lord  Byron  is,  that  his  writings 
have  a  tendency  to  destroy  all  belief  in  the  reality  of  virtue, 
and  to  make  all  enthusiasm  and  constancy  of  affection  ridicu- 
lous :  and  this,  not  so  much  by  direct  maxims  and  examples  of 
an  imposing  or  seducing  kind,  as  by  the  constant  exhibition  of 
the  most  profligate  hcartlcssncss  in  the  persons  who  had  been 
transiently  represented  as  actuated  by  the  purest  and  most 
exalted  emotions  ;  and  in  the  lessons  of  that  very  teacher  who 
had  been,  but  a  moment  before,  so  beautifully  pathetic  in  tho 
expression  of  the  loftiest  conceptions. 

2.  When  a  gay  voluptuary  descants,  somewhat  too  freely,  on 
the  intoxications  of  love  and  wine,  wo  ascribe  his  excesses  to  tho 
effervescence  of  youthful  spirits,  and  do  not  consider  him  as 
seriously  impeaching  cither  the  value  or  the  reality  of  the  severer 
virtues  ;  and,  in  the  same  way,  when  the  satirist  deals  out  his 
sarcasms  against  the  sincerity  of  human  professions,  and  unmasks 
the  secret  infirmities  of  our  bosoms,  we  consider  this  as  aimed  at 
hypocrisy,  and  not  at  mankind  :  or,  at  all  events,  and  in  tiihcr 
case,  we  consider  the  sensualist  and  mis'anthrope  as  wandering, 
each  in  his  own  delusion,  and  are  contented  to  pity  those  who 
have  never  known  the  charms  of  a  tender  or  generous  affection. 

3.  The  true  antidote  to  such  seductive  or  revolting  views  of 
human  nature,  is  to  turn  to  the  scenes  of  its  nobleness  and  at- 
traction ;  and  to  reconcile  ourselves  again  to  our  kind,  by  listen- 
ing to  the  accents  of  pure  affection  and  incorruptible  honor. 
But,  if  those  accents  have  flowed  in  all  their  sweetness  from  the 


248  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

very  lips  that  instantly  open  again  to  mock  and  blaspheme  them, 
the  antidote  is  mingled  with  the  poison,  and  the  draught  is  the 
more  deadly  for  the  mixture ! 

4.  The  reveler  may  pursue  his  orgies,  and  the  wanton  display 
her  enchantments,  with  comparative  safety  to  those  around 
them,  as  long  as  they  know  or  believe,  that  there  are  purer  and 
higher  enjoyments,  and  teachers  and  followers  of  a  happier  way. 
But,  if  the  priest  pass  from  the  altar,  with  persuasive  exhorta- 
tions to  peace  and  purity  still  trembling  on  his  tongue,  to  join 
familiarly  in  the  grossest  and  most  profane  debauchery — if  the 
matron,  who  has  charmed  all  hearts  by  the  lovely  sanctimonies 
of  her  con'jugal  and  maternal  endearments,  glides  out  from  the 
circle  of  her  children,  and  gives  bold  and  shameless  way  to  the 
most  abandoned  and  degrading  vices,  our  notions  of  right  and 
wrong  are  at  once  confounded,  our  confidence  in  virtue  shaken 
to  the  foundation,  and  our  reliance  on  truth  and  fidelity  at  an 
end  forever. 

5.  This  is  the  charge  which  we  bring  against  Lord  Byron. 
We  say,  that  under  some  strange  misapprehension  as  to  the 
truth,  and  the  duty  of  proclaiming  it,  he  has  exerted  all  the 
powers  of  his  powerful  mind  to  convince  his  readers,  both  di- 
rectly and  indirectly,  that  all  ennobling  pursuits  and  disinter- 
ested virtues  are  mere  deceits  or  illusions — hollow  and  des'picable 
mockeries,  for  the  most  part,  and,  at  best,  but  laborious  follies. 
Religion,  love,  patriotism,  valor,  devotion,  constancy,  ambition — 
all  are  to  be  laughed  at,  disbelieved  in,  and  despised!  and 
nothing  is  really  good,  so  far  as  we  can  gather,  but  a  succession 
of  dangers  to  stir  the  blood,  and  of  banquets  and  intrigues  to 
soothe  it  again  (a  gen') ! 

6.  If  this  doctrine  stood  alone  with  its  examples,  it  would 
revolt,  wo  believe,  more  than  it  would  seduce.  But  the  author 
has  the  unlucky  gift  of  personating  all  those  sweet  and  lofty 
illusions,  and  that  with  such  grace  and  force,  and  truth  to  nature, 
that  it  is  impossible  not  to  suppose,  for  the  time,  that  he  is 
among  the  most  devoted  of  their  votaries — till  he  casts  off  the 
character  with  a  jerk,  and,  the  moment  after  he  has  moved  and 
exalted  us  to  the  very  height  of  our  conception,  resumes  his 
mockery  at  all  things  serious  or  sublime,  and  lets  us  down  at 
once  on  some  coarse  joke,  hard-hearted  sarcasm,  or  fierce  and 
relentless  personality, — as  if  on  purpose  to  show  "  whoo'er  was 


LOUD    BYRON.  249 

edified,  himself  was  not,"  or  to  demon'strate,  practically  as  it 
wore,  and  by  example,  how  possible  it  is  to  havo  all  line  and 
noble  feelings,  or  their  appearance,  for  a  moment,  and  yet  re- 
tain no  particle  of  respect  for  them,  or  of  belief  in  their  intrinsic 
worth  or  permanent  reality.  Jeffrey. 

Francis  Jeffrey,  one  of  the  most  eloquent  writers  and  most  masterly  critics 
in  the  English  language,  an  eminent  jurist  and  orator,  was  born  at  Edinburgh, 
Scotland,  on  the  23d  of  October,  177a.  He  passed  six  years  at  the  High  School 
of  Edinburgh,  studied  at  the  University  of  Glasgow  for  two  sessions  of  six  months 
each,  and  in  his  eighteenth  year  resided  for  a  few  months  at  Oxford.  His  read- 
ing in  his  youth  embraced  classics,  history,  ethics,  criticism,  and  the  belle* 
h'trcs:  he  was  indefatigable  in  practicing  composition,  and  in  early  manhood 
wrote  many  verses.  He  was  admitted  to  the  Scottish  bar  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one.  The  first  number  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  which  contained  five  papers 
of  Jeffrey's,  appeared  in  October,  ISO'J,  when  he  was  twenty-nine  years  old; 
and  he  became  its  editor  after  the  first  two  or  three  numbers.  The  celebrity 
which  the  Review  at  once  attained,  was  owing  far  more  to  him  than  any  other  of 
the  contributors.  His  professional  practice  became  very  great ;  and  from  IMG 
till  he  ceased  to  practice,  he  was  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  Scottish  bar. 
In  1820,  and  again  in  1821,  he  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glas- 
gow. He  was  appointed  president  of  the  Faculty  of  Advocates  in  1829,  when 
he  resigned  the  editorship  of  the  Review,  a  position  which  he  had  held  for  twenty- 
seven  years.  During  that  period  he  contributed  more  than  two  hundred  articles. 
In  1830  he  was  appoiuted  Lord  Advocate,  an  office  which,  besides  many  other 
duties,  involved  those  of  Secretary  of  State  for  Scotland.  He  thus  entered  par- 
liament in  his  fifty-eighth  year.  In  1834  he  was  raised  to  the  bench,  and  became 
an  eminent  judge,  assuming  the  title  of  Lord  Jeffrey.  In  1843  he  published 
three  volumes,  containing  selections  from  his  "  Contributions  to  the  Edinburgh 
Jicvkw."    He  died  at  Edinburgh,  January  2Gth,  1850. 

n. 

G3.     LORD    BYROX. 

A  MAN  of  rank,  and  of  capacious  soul, 
AVho  riches  had,  and  fame,  beyond  desire  • 
An  heir  of  flattery,  to  titles  born, 
And  reputation,  and  luxurious  life  : 
Yet,  not  content  with  ancestorial  name, 
Or  to  be  known,  because  his  fathers  were, 
He  on  this  height  hereditary  stood, 
And  gazing  higher,  purposed  in  his  heart 
To  take  another  step. 

2.  Above  him  seemed, 

Alone,  the  inount  of  song,  the  lofty  seat 
Of  canonized  bards,  and  thitherward, 


250  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

is 

By  Nature  taught,  and  inward  melody, 
In  prime  of  youth,  ho  bent  his  eagle  eye. 
No  cost  was  spared.     What  books  he  wished,  he  read ; 
"What  sago  to  hear,  ho  heard  ;  what  scenes  to  see, 
He  saw.     And  first  in  rambling  school-boy  days, 
Britannia's  mountain-walks,  and  heath-girt  lakes, 
And  story-telling  glens,  and  founts,  and  brooks, 
And  maids,  as  dew-drops,  pure  and  fair,  his  soul 
With  grandeur  filled,  and  melody,  and  love. 

3.  Then  travel  came,  and  took  him  where  he  wished. 
He  cities  saw,  and  courts,  and  princely  pomp  ; 
And  mused  alone  on  ancient  mountain-brows  ; 
And  mused  on  battle-fields,  where  valor  fought 
In  other  days  ;  and  mused  on  ruins  gray 
With  years  ;  and  drank  from  old  and  fabulous  wells, 
And  plucked  the  vine  that  first-born  prophets  plucked  ; 
And  mused  on  famous  tombs,  and  on  the  wave 
Of  ocean  mused,  and  on  the  desert  waste  ; 
The  heavens  and  earth  of  every  country  saw. 
"Where'er  the  old-inspiring  Genii  dwelt, 
Aught  that  could  rouse,  expand,  refine  the  soul, 
Thither  he  went,  and  meditated  there. 

4-  He  touched  his  harp,  and  nations  heard  entranced. 
As  some  vast  river  of  unfailing  source, 
Bapid,  exhaustless,  deep,  his  numbers  flowed, 
And  oped  new  fountains  in  the  human  heart. 
Where  fancy  halted,  weary  in  her  flight, 
In  other  men,  his,  fresh  as  morning,  rose, 
And  soared  untrodden  heights,  and  seemed  at  home, 
WTiere  angels  bashful  looked.     Others,  though  great, 
Beneath  their  argument  seemed  struggling  ;  whiles 
He  from  above  descending,  stooped  to  touch 
The  loftiest  thought ;  and  proudly  stooped,  as  though 
It  scarce  deserved  his  verse. 

5.  With  Nature's  self 

He  seemed  an  old  acquaintance,  free  to  jest 
At  will  with  all  her  glorious  majesty. 
He  laid  his  hand  upon  "  the  Ocean's  mane," 
And  played  familiar  with  his  hoary  locks. 


LORD    BYRON.  251 

Stood  on  tho  Alps,  stood  on  tho  Apennines, 
And  with  tho  thunder  talked,  as  friend  to  friend  ; 
And  wovo  his  garland  of  tho  lightning's  wing, 
In  sportive  twist, — tho  lightning's  fiery  wing, 
Which,  as  the  footsteps  of  tho  dreadful  God, 
Marching  upon  the  storm  in  vcngeanco  seemed  : 
Then  turned,  and  with  the  grasshopper,  that  sung 
His  evening  song  beneam  his  feet,  conversed. 

C.  Suns,  moons,  and  stars,  and  clouds  his  sisters  were  ; 
Rocks,  mountains,  meteors,  seas,  and  winds,  and  storms, 
His  brothers, — younger  brothers,  whom  ho  scarce 
As  equals  deemed.     All  passions  of  all  men, — 
The  wild  and  tame — tho  gentle  and  severe  ; 
All  thoughts,  all  maxims,  sacred  and  profano  ; 
All  creeds  ;  all  seasons,  Time,  Eternity  ; 
All  that  was  hated,  and  all  that  was  dear  ; 
All  that  was  hoped,  all  that  was  feared  by  man, 
Ho  tossed  about,  as  tempest-withered  leaves, 
Then  smiling  looked  upon  the  wreck  ho  made. 

7.  With  terror  now  he  froze  the  cowering  blood  ; 
And  now  dissolved  the  heart  in  tenderness  : 
Yet  would  not  tremble,  would  not  weep  himself ; 
Rut  back  into  his  soul  retired,  alone, 

Dark,  sullen,  proud, — gazing  contemptuously 
On  hearts  and  passions  prostrate  at  his  feet. 
So  Ocean  from  the  plains  his  waves  had  late 
To  desolation  swept,  retired  in  pride, 
Exulting  in  the  glory  of  his  might, 
And  seemed  to  mock  the  ruin  he  had  wrought 

8.  As  some  fierce  comet  of  tremendous  size, 

To  which  the  stars  did  reverence  as  it  passed, 
So  he  through  learning  and  through  fancy  took 
His  flight  sublime  ;  and  on  the  loftiest  top 
Of  Fame's  dread  mountain  sat  :  not  soiled  and  worn, 
As  if  he  from  the  earth  had  labored  up  ; 
Rut,  as  some  bird  of  heavenly  plumage  fan- 
He  looked,  which  down  from  higher  regions  came, 
And  perched  it  there,  to  see  what  lay  beneath. 

9.  The  nations  gazed,  and  wondered  much,  and  praised : 


252  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Critics  before  him  fell  in  humble  plight, — 

Confounded  fell, — and  made  debasing  signs 

To  catch  his  eye  ;  and  stretched,  and  swelled  themselves, 

To  bursting  nigh,  to  utter  bulky  words 

Of  admiration  vast  :  and  many,  too, 

Many  that  aimed  to  imitate  his  flight, 

With  weaker  wing,  unearthly  fluttering  made, 

And  gave  abundant  sport  to  after  days. 

10.  Great  man !     The  nations  gazed,  and  wondered  much, 
And  praised  ;  and  many  called  his  evil  good. 

Wits  wrote  in  favor  of  his  wickedness  ; 

And  kings  to  do  him  honor  took  delight. 

Thus  full  of  titles,  flattery,  honor,  fame,— ■ 

Beyond  desire,  beyond  ambition,  full, — 

He  died  :  he  died  of  what  ?     Of  wretchedness. 

Drank  every  cup  of  joy,  heard  every  trump 

Of  fame  ;  drank  early,  deeply  drank  ;  drank  draughts 

That  common  millions  might  have  quenched,  then  died 

Of  thirst,  because  there  was  no  more  to  drink. 

His  goddess,  Nature,  wooed,  embraced,  enjoyed, 

Fell  from  his  arms,  abhorred  ;  his  passions  died,— 

Died,  all  but  dreary,  solitary  pride  ; 

And  all  his  sympathies  in  being  died. 

11.  As  some  ill-guided  bark,  well-built,  and  tall, 
Which  angry  tides  cast  out  on  desert  shore, 
And  then,  retiring,  left  it  there  to  rot 

And  molder  in  the  winds  and  rains  of  heaven  ; 

So  he,  cut  from  the  sympathies  of  life, 

And  cast  ashore  from  pleasure's  boisterous  surge, 

A  wandering,  weary,  worn,  and  wretched  thing, 

Scorched,  and  desolate,  and  blasted  soul, 

A  gloomy  wilderness  of  dying  thought, 

Repined  and  groaned,  and  withered  from  the  earth. 

His  groanings  filled  the  land  his  numbers  filled  ; 

And  yet  he  seemed  ashamed  to  groan  :  Poor  man  ! — 

Ashamed  to  ask,  and  yet  he  needed  help.  Pollok. 

Robert  Pollok  was  born  in  1709,  In  Renfrewshire,  Scotland,  where  his  lather 

was  a  small  farmer.  After  receiving  the  usual  elementary  education, he  entered, 
at  the  age  of  nineteen,  on  a  five  years'  course  of  study  in  the  University  of 
Glasgow.  His  ambitious  and  energetic  poem,  "  Course  of  Time,"  appeared  in 
the  spring  of  1827,  and  speedily  obtained  a  popularity  which  it  is  not  likely  soon 


MIDNIGHT— THE    COLISEUM.  253 

to  lose.  Its  deeply  religious  character  recommended  it  to  serious  person* ;  and 
it  was  admired  by  critics  for  the  many  flashes  of  original  genius  which  light  up 
the  crude  and  un wieldly  design,  and  atone  for  the  narrow  range  of  thought  and 
knowledge,  as  well  as  for  the  stiff  pomposity  that  pervades  the  diction.  A  few 
of  its  passages  arc  strikingly  and  most  poetically  imaginative,  and  some  arc 
beautifully  touching.  Immediately  after  the  publication  of  his  poem,  he  was 
admitted  as  a  preacher  in  the  United  Secession  Church.  He  died  of  consump- 
tion in  September  of  the  same  year,  before  the  age  of  thirty. 

III. 

CO.     MIDNIGHT— THE    COLISEUM. 

THE  stars  are  forth,  the  moon  above  the  tops 
Of  the  snow-shining  mountains.     Beautiful! 
I  linger  yet  with  Nature,  for  the  night 
Hath  been  to  me  a  more  familiar  face 
Than  that  of  man  ;  and  in  her  starry  shade 
Of  dim  and  solitary  loveliness, 
I  learned  the  language  of  another  world. 

2.  I  do  remember  me,  that  in  my  youth, 
"When  I  was  wandering,  upon  such  a  night, 
I  stood  within  the  Colise'um's  '  wall, 
'Midst  the  chief  relics  of  all-mighty  Rome  : 
The  trees  which  grew  along  the  broken  arches 
Waved  dark  in  the  blue  midnight,  and  the  stars 
Shone  through  the  rents  of  ruin  ;  from  afar 
The  watch-dog  bayed  beyond  the  Tiber  ;  and 
More  near,  from  out  of  the  Crcsar's  palace  came 
The  owl's  long  cry,  and,  interruptedly, 

Of  distant  sentinels  the  fitful  song 
Begun  and  died  upon  the  gentle  wind. 

3.  Some  cypresses  beyond  the  time-worn  breach 
Appeared  to  skirt  the  hori'zon,  yet  they  stood 
"Within  a  bow-shot.     Where  the  Cresars  dwelt, 
And  dwell  the  tuneless  birds  of  night,  amidst 

1  C5rise'um,  the  amphitheatre  Jews.     It  was  called  the  Coliseum,, 

of  Vespasian,  at   Rome,  the  largest  from  the   colossal    statue   of  Nero, 

in   the    world,   said    to   have    held  which    was  placed   in   it.      In    this 

110,000  spectators.     The   ruins    are  amphitheater    were    exhibited    the 

still  standing.     It   is  said   to   have  contests  of  gladiators  and  wild  ani- 

been  built  in  one  year,  by  the  com-  mals,  and  other  savage  spectacles  in 

pulsory  labor  of    twelve  thousand  which  the  Romans  delighted. 


254  NATIONAL  FIFTH  READER. 

A  grove  vrhich  springs  through  leveled  battlements, 
And  twine3  its  roots  with  the  imperial  hearths/ 
Ivy  usurps  the  laurel's  place  of  growth  ; 
But  the  glad'iatorV  bloody  circus  stands 
A  noble  wreck  in  ruinous  perfection ! 
"While  Caesar's  chambers  and  the  Augustan  halls 
Grovel  on  earth  in  indistinct  decay. 
4  And  thou  didst  shine,  thou  rolling  moon,  upon 
All  this,  and  cast  a  wide  and  tender  light, 
Which  softened  down  the  hoar  austerity 
Of  rugged  desolation,  and  filled  up, 
As  'twere  anew,  the  gaps  of  centuries  ; 
Leaving  that  beautiful  which  still  was  so, 
And  making  that  which  was  not,  till  the  place 
Became  religion,  and  the  heart  ran  o'er 
With  silent  worship  of  the  great  of  old — 
The  dead,  but  sceptered  sovereigns,  who  still  rule 
Our  spirits  from  their  urns !  Lord  Byron. 

George  Gordon  Byron,  the  descendant  and  head  of  an  ancient  and  noble 
family,  was  born  in  London,  January  22nd,  17S8.  He  entered  Trinity  College, 
Cambridge,  1805,  with  a  rare  reputation  for  general  information,  having  read  an 
almost  incredible  list  of  works  in  various  departments  of  literature  before  the  age 
of  fifteen.  He  neglected  the  prescribed  course  of  study  at  the  university,  but 
his  genius  kept  him  ever  active.  His  first  work,  "  The  Hours  of  Idleness,"  ap- 
peared in  1S07.  It  received  a  castigation  from  the  "  Edinburgh  Review,"  to 
which  we  owe  the  first  spirited  outbreak  of  his  talents,  in  the  able  and  vigorous 
satire  entitled,  "English  Bards  and  Scotish  Reviewers,"  published  in  1809.  He 
took  his  scat  in  the  House  of  Lords  a  few  days  before  the  appearance  of  this 
satire;  but  soon  left  for  the  Continent.  He  returned  home  in  1S11,  with  two 
cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  which  he  had  written  abroad.  They  were  published 
in  March,  1812,  and  were  immediately  received  with  such  unbounded  admira- 
tion, as  to  justify  the  poet's  terse  remark,  "I  awoke  one  morning,  and  found 
myself  famous."  In  May  of  the  next  year,  appeared  his  "Giaour;"  in  Novem- 
ber, the  "Bride  of  Abydos,"  written  in  a  week;  and,  about  three  months  after, 
the  "  Corsair,"  written  in  the  almost  incredible  space  of  ten  days.  January  2d, 
1815,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Milbankc,  the  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  Sir 
Ralph  Milbankc  ;  and  his  daughter,  Augusta  Ada,  was  born  in  December  of  that 
year.  The  husband  and  wife,  for  an  unknown  cause,  separated  forever,  on  the 
15th  of  January  of  the  nc:;t  year.  He  quitted  England  for  the  last  time  on  the 
25th  of  April,  1810,  and  passed  through  Elandcrs,  and  along  the  Rhine  to  Swit- 
zerland, where  he  resided  until  the  close  of  the  year.  He  here  composed  the 
third  canto  of  "Childe  Harold,"  the  "Prisoner  of  Chillon,"  "Darkness,"  "The 
Dream,"  and  a  part  of  "Manfred."  The  next  year  he  went  to  Italy,  where  he 
resided  several  years,  and  where  he  wrote  the  fourth  canto  of  "  Childe  Harold," 
"Mazeppa,"  "The  Lament  of  Tasso,"  "Beppo,"  "Don  Juan,"  and  his  dramatic 

1  Hearth,  (birth).  2  Glad'  i  a  tor,  a  swordplayor ;  a  prize-fighter. 


VIEW    OF    THE    COLISEUM.  255 

poems.  In  1S23  he  interested  himself  in  the  struggle  of  the  Greeks  to  throw  off 
the  Turkish  yoke  and  gain  their  independence.  In  December  of  that  year,  after 
making  his  arrangements  with  judgment  and  generosity,  he  sailed  fur  Greece, 
and  arrived  at  Missolonghi  on  the  5th  of  January,  1S24,  where  he  WU  received 
with  great  enthusiasm.  In  threw  months  he  did  much  to  produce  harmony  and 
introduce  order;  but  he  had  scarcely  arranged  hie  plans  to  aid  the  nation,  when 
he  was  seized  with  a  fever,  and  expired  on  the  19th  of  April,  1824,  soon  after 
having  celebrated,  in  affecting  verses,  the  completion  of  his  thirty-sixth  year. 

IV. 

70.     VIEW    OF    THE    COLISEUM. 

I  WENT  to  sec  the  Colise'um  by  moonlight  It  is  the  mon- 
arch, the  majesty  of  all  ruins  ;  there  is  nothing  like  it.  All 
the  associations  of  tho  place,  too,  give  it  the  most  impressive 
character.  When  you  enter  within  this  stupendous  circle  of 
ruinous  walls  and  arches,  and  grand  terraces  of  masonry,  rising 
one  above  another,  you  stand  upon  the  arena  of  the  old  gladia- 
torial combats  and  Christian  martyrdoms  ;  and  as  you  lift  your 
eyes  to  the  vast  amphitheater,  you  meet,  in  imagination,  the 
eyes  of  a  hundred  thousand  Romans,  assembled  to  witness  these 
bloody  spectacles.  What  a  multitude  and  mighty  array  of  hu- 
man beings !  and  how  little  do  we  know  in  modern  times  of 
great  assemblies !  One,  two,  and  three,  and  at  its  last  enlarge- 
ment by  Constantine,1  more  than  three  hundred  thousand  per- 
sons could  be  seated  in  tho  Circus  Maximus ! 

2.  But  to  return  to  the  Colise'um  ;  we  went  up  under  the  con- 
duct of  a  guide,  upon  the  walls  and  terraces,  or  embankments 
which  supported  the  ranges  of  seats.  The  seats  have  long  since 
disappeared  ;  and  grass  overgrows  the  spots  where  the  pride, 
and  power,  and  wealth,  and  beauty  of  Rome  sat  down  to  its  bar- 
barous entertainments.  What  thronging  life  was  here  then — 
what  voices,  what  greetings,  what  hurrying  footsteps  up  the 
staircases  of  the  eighty  arches  of  entrance !  And  now,  as  we 
picked  our  way  carefully  through  the  decayed  passages,  or 
cautiously  ascended  some  nioldering  flight  of  steps,  or  stood  by 
the  lonely  walls — ourselves  silent,  and,  for  a  wonder,  the  guide 
silent  too — there  was  no  sound  here  but  of  the  bat,  and  none 
came  from  without,  but  the  roll  of  a  distant  carriage  or  the 
convent  bell  from  the  summit  of  the  neighboring  Esquiline. 


1  Constantine  I.,  called  the  Great,  was  born  A.D.  271  proclaimed  emperor 
of  Home  by  the  army  in  806,  and  died  in  337 


256  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

3.  It  is  scarcely  possible  to  describe  the  effect  of  moonlight 
upon  this  ruin.  Through  a  hundred  rents  in  the  broken  walls, 
through  a  hundred  lonely  arches  and  blackened  passage-ways, 
it  streamed  in,,  pure,  bright,  soft,  lambent,  and  yet  distinct  and 
clear,  as  if  it  came  there  at  once  to  reveal,  and  cheer,  and  pity 
the  mighty  desolation.  But  if  the  Colise'um  is  a  mournful  and 
desolate  spectacle  as  seen  from  within — without,  and  especially 
on  the  side  which  is  in  best  preservation,  it  is  glorious.  W6 
passed  around  it ;  and,  as  we  looked  upward,  the  moon  shining 
through  its  arches,  from  the  opposite  side  it  appeared  as  if  it 
were  the  coronet  of  the  heavens,  so  vast  was  it — or  like  a  glori- 
ous crown  upon  the  brow  of  night. 

4.  I  feel  that  I  do  not  and  can  not  describe  this  mighty  ruin 
I  can  only  say  that  I  came  away  paralyzed,  and  as  passive  as  a 
child.  A  soldier  stretched  out  his  hand  for  a  gratuity,  as  we 
passed  the  guard  ;  and  when  my  companion  said  I  did  wrong  to 
give,  I  told  him  that  I  should  have  given  my  cloak,  if  the  man 
had  asked  it.  Would  you  break  any  spell  that  worldly  feeling 
or  selfish  sorrow  may  have  spread  over  your  mind,  go  and  see 
the  Colise'um  by  moonlight.  Okville  Dewey. 

V. 

71.     THE    DYING    GLADIATOR. 

THE  seal  is  set. — Now  welcome,  thou  dread  power ! 
Nameless,  yet  thus  omnipotent,  which  here 
Walk'st  in  the  shadow  of  the  midnight  hour 
"With  a  deep  awe,  yet  all  distinct  froni  fear  ; 
Thy  haunts  are  ever  where  the  dead  walls  rear 
Their  ivy  mantles,  and  the  solemn  scene 

Derives  from  thee  a  sense  so  deep  and  clear, 
That  we  become  a  part  of  what  has  been, 
And  grow  unto  the  spot,  all-seeing,  but  unseen. 

2.  And  here  the  buzz  of  eager  nations  ran, 

In  murmured  pity,  or  loud-roared  applause, 

As  man  was  slaughtered  by  his  fellow-man. 

And  wherefore  slaughtered  ?  wherefore,  but  because 
Such  were  the  bloody  circus'  genial  laws, 

And  the  imperial  pleasure.     Wherefore  not  ? 
What  matters  where  we  fall  to  fill  tho  maws 


SCENE    WITH    A    PANTHER.  257 

Of  worms — on  battle-plains  or  listed  spot  ? 
BcJth  are  but  theaters  where  the  chief  actors  rot. 

3.  I  see  before  me  the  gladiator  lie  : 

He  leans  upon  his  hand  ;  his  manly  brow 
Consents  to  death,  but  conquers  agony, 

And  his  drooped  head  sinks  gradually  low  ; 

And  through  his  side  the  last  drops,  ebbing  slow 
From  the  red  gash,  fall  heavy,  one  by  one, 

Like  the  first  of  a  thunder-shower  ;  and  now 
Tho  arena  swims  around  him  :  he  is  gone, 
Ere  ceased  the  inhuman  shout  which  hailed  the  wretch  who  won 

4.  He  heard  it,  but  he  heeded  not ;  his  eyes 

Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away  : 
Ho  recked  not  of  tho  life  he  lust,  nor  prize  ; 
But  where  his  rude  hut  by  the  Danube  lay, 
There  were  his  young  barbarians  all  at  play, 
There  was  their  Dacian l  mother — he,  their  sire, 

Butchered  to  make  a  Bom  an  holiday. 
All  this  rushed  with  his  blood.     Shall  he  expire, 
And  unavenged?     Arise,  ye  Goths,2  and  glut  your  ire ! 

Lord  Byron. 


SECTION    XIV. 
I. 

72.     SCENE    WITH    A    PANTHER. 

AS  soon  as  I  had  effected  my  dangerous  passage,  I  screened 
myself  behind  a  cliff,  and  gave  myself  up  to  reflection. 
While  thu3  occupied,  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  opposite 
steeps.  The  tops  of  tho  trees,  waving  to  and  fro  in  the  wildest 
commotion,  and  their  trunks  occasionally  bending  to  the  blast, 

J_  , ,         ,  m* 

1  Daeian,  (d&'  slian),  from  Dacia,  a  quest  by  Trajan,  in  the  year  103,  af- 

country  of  ancient  Germany  form-  ter  a  war  of  fifteen  years, 

ing  the  modern  countries,  Hungary,  2  Goths,  a   celebrated  nation   of 

YVallachia,  Moldavia,  and  Transyl-  Germans,    warriors    by    profession, 

vania.     Many  of  the  gladiators  camo  who,   in  the  year  410,  under  their 

from  Dacia,  especially  after  its  con-  king,  Alaric,  plundered  Rome. 


258  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

which,  in  these  lofty  regions,  blew  with  a  violence  unknown  in 
the  tracts  below,  exhibited  an  awful  spectacle. 

2.  At  length  my  attention  was  attracted  by  the  trunk  which 
lay  across  the  gulf,  and  which  I  had  converted  into  a  bridge.  I 
perceived  that  it  had  already  somewhat  swerved  from  its  original 
position,  that  every  blast  broke  or  loosened  some  of  the  fibers  by 
which  its  roots  were  connected  with  the  opposite  bank,  and  that, 
if  the  storm  did  not  vspeedily  abate,  there  was  imminent  danger 
of  its  being  torn  from  the  rock  and  precipitated  into  the  chasm. 
Thus  my  retreat  would  be  cut  off,  and  the  evils  from  which  I  was 
endeavoring  to  rescue  another,  would  be  experienced  by  myself. 

3.  I  believed  my  destiny  to  hang  upon  the  expedition  with 
which  I  should  recross  this  gulf.  The  moments  that  were  spent 
in  these  deliberations  were  critical,  and  I  shuddered  to  observe 
that  the  trunk  was  held  in  its  place  by  one  or  two  fibers  which 
were  already  stretched  almost  to  breaking.  To  pass  along  the 
trunk,  rendered  slippery  by  the  wet  and  unsteadfast  by  the 
wind  was  eminently  dangerous.  To  maintain  my  hold  in  pass- 
ing, in  defiance  of  the  whirlwind,  required  the  most  vigorous 
exertions.  For  this  end,  it  was  necessary  to  discommode  myself 
of  my  cloak. 

4.  Just  as  I  had  disposed  of  this  encumbrance,  and  had  risen 
from  my  seat,  my  attention  was  again  called  to  the  opposite 
steep,  by  the  most  unwelcome  object  that  at  this  time  could 
possibly  present  itself.  Something  was  perceived  moving  among 
the  bushes  and  rocks,  which,  for  a  time,  I  hoped  was  no  more 
than  a  raccoon  or  opossum,  but  which  presently  appeared  to  be 
a  panther.  His  gray  coat,  extended  claws,  fiery  eyes,  and  a  cry 
which  he  at  that  moment  uttered,  and  which,  by  its  reseinblanco 
to  the  human  voice,  is  peculiarly  terrific,  denoted  him  to  be  the 
most  ferocious  and  untamable  of  that  detested  race. 

5.  The  in'dustry  of  our  hunters  lias  nearly  banished  animals 
of  prey  from  these  precincts.  The  fastnesses  of  Norwalk,  how- 
ever, could  not  but  afford  refuge  to  some  of  them.  Of  lato  I 
had  met  them  so  rarelr,  that  my  fears  were  seldom  alive,  and  I 
trod,  without  caution,  the  rnggedest  and  most  solitary  haunts. 
Still,  however,  I  had  seldom  been  unfurnished  in  my  rambles 
with  the  means  of  defense. 

6.  The  unfrequency  with  which  I  had  lately  encountered  this 
foe,  and  the  encumbrance  of  provision,  made  mo  neglect,  on  this 


SCENE    WITH    A    PANTHER  259 

occasion,  to  bring  with  mo  my  usual  arms.  The  beast  tliat  was 
now  before  mo,  when  stimulated  by  hunger,  was  accustomed  to 
assail  whatever  could  provide  him  with  a  banquet  of  blood.  Ho 
would  set  upon  man  and  tho  deer  with  equal  and  irresistible 
ferocity.  His  sagacity  was  equal  to  his  strength,  and  he  seemed 
able  to  discover  when  his  antagonist  was  armed. 

7.  My  past  experience  enabled  me  to  estimate  the  full  extent 
of  my  danger.  Ho  sat  on  tho  brow  of  tho  steep,  eyeing  tho 
bridge,  and  apj^arcntly  deliberating  whether  ho  should  cross  it. 
It  was  probable  that  ho  had  scented  my  footsteps  thus  far,  and 
should  he  pass  over,  his  vigilance  could  scarcely  fail  of  detecting 
my  asy'lura. 

8.  Should  ho  retain  his  present  station,  my  dinger  was 
scarcely  lessened.  To  pass  over  in  the  face  of  a  famished  tiger 
was  only  to  rush  upon  my  fate.  The  falling  of  the  trunk,  which 
had  lately  been  so  anxiously  deprecated,  was  now,  with  no  less 
solicitude,  desired.  Every  new  gust  I  hoped  would  tear  asunder 
its  remaining  bands,  and,  by  cutting  oil*  all  communication  be- 
tween the  opposite  steeps,  place  ino  in  security.  My  hopes, 
however,  were  destined  to  be  frustrated.  The  fibers  of  tho 
prostrato  tree  were  obstinately  tenacious  of  their  hold,  and 
presently  the  animal  scrambled  down  the  rock  and  proceeded  to 
cross  it. 

9.  Of  all  hinds  of  death,  that  which  now  menaced  mo  was  tho 
most  abhorred.  To  die  by  disease,  or  by  the  hand  of  a  fellow- 
creature,  was  lenient  in  comparison  with  being  rent  to  pieces  by 
tho  fangs  of  this  savage.  To  perish  in  this  obscure  retreat,  by 
means  so  impervious  to  the  anxious  curiosity  of  my  friends,  to 
loso  my  portion  of  existence  by  so  untoward  and  ignoble  a 
destiny,  was  insupportable.  I  bitterly  deplored  my  rashness  in 
coming  hither  unprovided  for  an  encounter  like  thi  . 

10.  Tho  evil  of  my  present  circumstances  consisted  chiefly  in 
suspense.  My  death  was  unavoidable,  but  my  imagination  had 
leisure  to  torment  itself  by  anticipations.  One  foot  of  t 
savage  was  slowly  and  cautiously  moved  after  tho  other.  He 
struck  his  claws  so  deeply  into  the  bark  that  they  were  with 
difficulty  withdrawn.  At  length  ho  leaped  upon  the  ground. 
We  wero  now  separated  by  an  interval  of  sca-veiy  eight  feet. 
To  leavo  tho  spot  where  I  crouched  was  impossible.  Behind 
and  beside  mo  the  cliff  rose  perpendicularly,  and  before  mo  was 


260  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

this  grim  and  terrific  visage.     I  shrunk  still  closer  to  the  ground 
and  closed  my  eyes. 

11.  From  this  pause  of  horror  I  was  aroused  by  the  noise 
occasioned  by  a  second  spring  of  the  animal.  He  leaped  into 
the  pit  in  which  I  had  so  deeply  regretted  that  I  had  not  taken 
refuge,  and  disappeared.  My  rescue  was  so  sudden,  and  so 
much  beyond  my  belief  or  my  hope,  that  I  doubted  for  a  moment 
whether  my  senses  did  not  deceive  me.  This  opportunity  of 
escapo  was  not  to  be  neglected.  I  left  my  place  and  scrambled 
over  the  trunk  with  a  precipitation  which  had  liked  to  have 
proved  fatal.  The  tree  groaned  and  shook  under  me,  the  wind 
blew  with  unexampled  violence,  and  I  had  scarcely  reached  the 
opposite  steep  when  the  roots  were  severed  from  the  rock,  and 
the  whole  fell  thundering  to  the  bottom  of  the  chasm. 

12.  My  trepidations  were  not  cpeedily  quieted.  I  looked  back 
with  wonder  on  my  hair-breadth  escape,  and  on  that  singular 
concurrence  of  events  which  had  placed  me  in  so  short  a  period 
in  absolute  security.  Had  the  trunk  fallen  a  moment  earlier,  I 
should  have  been  imprisoned  on  the  hill  or  thrown  headlong. 
Had  its  fall  been  delayed  another  moment,  I  should  have  been 
pursued  ;  for  the  beast  now  issued  from  his  den,  and  testified 
his  surprise  and  disappointment  by  tokens,  the  sight  of  which 
made  my  blood  run  cold. 

13.  He  saw  me,  and  hastened  to  the  verge  of  the  chasm.  He 
squatted  on  his  hind-legs,  and  assumed  the  attitude  of  one  pre- 
paring to  leap.  My  consternation  was  excited  afresh  by  these 
appearances.  It  seemed,  at  first,  as  if  the  rift  was  too  wide  for 
any  power  of  muscles  to  carry  him  in  safety  over  ;  but  I  knew 
the  unparalleled  agility  of  this  animal,  and  that  his  experience 
had  made  him  a  better  judge  of  the  practicability  of  this  exploit 
than  I  was. 

11.  Still,  there  was  hopo  that  he  would  relinquish  this  design 

as  desperate.     This  hope  was  quickly  at  an  end.     He  sprung, 

and  his  fore-legs  touched  the  verge  of  the  rock  on  which  I  stood. 

In  spite  of  vc'hemcnt  exertions,  however,  the  surface  was  too 

smooth  and  too  hard  to  allow  him  to  make  good  his  hold.     He 

fell,  and  a  piercing  cry,  uttered  below,  showed  that  nothing  had 

obstructed  his  descent  to  the  bottom.  Brown. 

Charles  Brockden  Brown,  the  first  American  who  chose  literature  as  a  pro- 
fession, was  born  in  Philadelphia  on  the  17th  of  January,  1771,  and  died  the  22d 
of  February,  1810.    He  was  a  gentle,  unobtrusive  enthusiast,  who,  though  he 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE.         261 

resided  principally  in  cities,  passed  a  large  portion  of  his  life  as  a  recluse.  He 
lived  in  an  ideal,  and  had  little  sympathy  with  the  actual  world.  lie  had  more 
genius  than  talent,  and  more  imagination  than  fancy.  His  works,  which  were 
rapidly  written,  arc  incomplete,  and  deficient  in  method.  Though  he  disre- 
garded rules,  and  cared  little  for  criticism,  his  style  was  clear  and  nervous,  with 
little  ornament,  free  of  affectations,  and  indicated  a  singular  sincerity  and  depth 
of  feeling.  "  Wicland,  or  the  Transformed,"  the  first  of  a  series  of  brilliant  nov- 
els by  which  Brown  gained  his  enduring  reputation,  was  published  in  1708.  It 
is  in  all  respects  a  remarkable  book.  Its  plot,  characters,  and  style  arc  original 
and  peculiar.  The  novel  from  which  the  above  extract  was  taken  is  entitled, 
"  Edgar  Huntley,  the  Memoirs  of  a  Somnambulist.'1  The  scene  is  located  near 
the  forks  of  the  Delaware,  in  Pennsylvania.  Clithero,  the  sleep-walker,  has  be- 
come insane,  and  has  lied  into  one  of  the  wild  mountain  fastnesses  of  Norwalk. 
Edgar  Huntley,  when  endeavoring  to  discover  his  retreat,  meets  with  the  adven- 
ture described  above.  This  description  is  written  with  a  freedom,  minuteness, 
and  truthfulness  to  nature,  that  render  it  fearfully  interesting  and  effective. 

n. 

73.  COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE. 

PART    FIRST. 

FATHOM  departed  from  the  village  that  same  afternoon 
under  the  au'spices  of  his  conductor,  and  found  himself 
benighted  in  the  midst  of  a  forest,  far  from  the  habitations  of 
men.  The  darkness  of  the  night,  the  silence  and  solitude  of  the 
place,  the  indistinct  images  of  the  trees  that  appeared  on  every 
side  stretching  their  extravagant  arms  athwart  the  gloom,  con- 
spired with  the  dejection  of  spirits  occasioned  by  his  loss  to 
disturb  his  fancy,  and  raise  strange  phantoms  in  his  imagination. 
Although  he  was  not  naturally  superstitious,  his  mind  began  to 
be  invaded  with  an  awful  horror,  that  gradually  prevailed  over 
all  the  consolations  of  reason  and  philosophy  ;  nor  was  his 
heart  free  from  the  terrors  of  assassination. 

2.  In  order  to  dissipate  these  disagreeable  reveries,  he  had  re- 
course to  the  conversation  of  his  guide,  by  whom  he  was  enter- 
tained with  the  history  of  divers  travelers  who  had  been  robbed 
and  murdered  by  ruffians  (riif'yanz),  whose  retreat  was  in  the 
recesses  of  that  very  wood.  In  the  midst  of  this  communication, 
which  did  not  at  all  tend  to  the  elevation  of  our  hero's  spirits, 
the  conductor  made  an  excuse  for  dropping  behind,  while  our 
traveler  jogged  on  in  expectation  of  being  joined  again  by  him 
in  a  few  minutes.  He  was,  however,  disappointed  in  that  hope  : 
the  sound  of  the  horse's  feet  by  degrees  grew  more  and  more 
faint,  and  at  last  altogether  died  away. 


262  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

3.  Alarmed  at  this  circumstance,  Fathom  halted  in  the  read, 
and  listened  •with  the  most  fearful  attention  ;  but  his  sense  of 
hearing  was  saluted  with  naught  but  the  dismal  sighings  of  the 
trees,  that  seemed  to  foretell  an  approaching  storm.  Accord- 
ingly, the  heavens  contracted  a  mure  dreary  aspect,  the  lightning 
began  to  gleam,  the  thunder  to  roll,  and  the  tempest,  raising  its 
voice  to  a  tremendous  roar,  descended  in  a  torrent  of  rain. 

4.  In  this  emergency,  the  fortitude  of  our  hero  was  almost 
quite  overcome.  So  many  concurring  circumstances  of  danger 
and  distress  might  have  appalled  the  most  undaunted  breast ; 
what  impression  then  must  they  have  made  upon  the  mind  of 
Ferdinand,  who  was  by  no  means  a  man  to  set  fear  at  defiance ! 
Indeed,  he  had  well-nigh  lost  the  use  of  his  reflection,  and  was 
actually  invaded  to  the  skin,  before  he  could  recollect  himself 
so  far  as  to  quit  the  road,  and  seek  for  shelter  among  the  thick- 
ets that  surrounded  him. 

5.  Having  rode  some  furlongs  into  the  forest,  he  took  his  sta- 
tion under  a  tuft  of  tall  trees,  that  screened  him  from  the  storm, 
and  in  that  situation  called  a  council  with  himself,  to  deliberate 
upon  his  next  excursion.  He  persuaded  himself  that  his  guido 
had  deserted  him  for  the  present,  in  order  to  give  intelligence  of 
a  traveler  to  some  gang  of  robbers  with  whom  he  was  connected  ; 
and  that  he  must  of  necessity  fall  a  prey  to  those  banditti,  un- 
less he  should  have  the  good  fortune  to  elude  their  search,  and 
disentangle  himself  from  the  mazes  of  the  wood. 

6.  Harrowed  with  these  apprehensions,  he  resolved  to  com- 
mit himself  to  the  mercy  of  the  hurricane,  as  of  two  evils  tho 
least,  and  penetrate  straight  forward  through  some  devious  open- 
ing, until  he  should  be  delivered  from  the  forest.  For  this  pur- 
pose he  turned  his  horse's  head  in  a  line  quite  contrary  to  the 
direction  of  the  high  road  which  he  had  left,  on  the  supposition 
that  the  robbers  would  pursue  that  tract  in  quest  of  him,  and  that 
they  would  never  dream  of  his  deserting  the  highway  to  traverse 
an  unknown  forest  amidst  the  darkness  of  such  a  boisterous  night. 

7.  After  he  had  continued  in  this  progress  through  a  succes- 
sion of  groves,  and  bogs,  and  thorns,  and  brakes,  by  which  not 
only  his  clothes,  but  also  his  skin  suffered  in  a  grievous  manner 
while  every  nerve  quivered  with  eagerness  and  dismay,  he  at 
length  reached  an  open  plain,  and  pursuing  his  course,  in  full 
hope  of  arriving  at  some  village  where  his  life  would  be  safe,  ho 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE.         203 

descried  a  rushlight,  at  a  distance,  which  he  looked  upon  as  iho 
star  of  his  good  fortune  ;  and  riding  toward  it  at  full  speed,  ar- 
rived at  the  door  of  a  lone  cottage,  into  which  he  was  admitted 
by  an  old  woman,  who,  understanding  ho  was  a  bewildered 
traveler,  received  him  with  great  hospitality. 

8.  When  he  learned  from  his  hostess  that  there  was  not 
another  house  within  three  leagues,  and  that  she  could  accom- 
modate him  with  a  tolerable  bed,  and  his  horse  with  lodging 
and  oats,  ho  thanked  Heaven  for  his  good  fortune  in  stumbling 
upon  this  humble  habitation,  and  determined  to  pass  the  night 
under  the  protection  of  the  old  cottager,  who  gave  him  to  un- 
derstand, that  her  husband,  who  was  a  fagot-maker,  had  gone 
to  the  next  town  to  dispose  of  his  merchandise,  and  that  in  all 
probability  he  would  not  return  till  the  next  morning,  on  ac- 
count of  the  tempestuous  night. 

9.  Ferdinand  sounded  the  beldam  with  a  thousand  artful  in- 
terrogations, and  she  answered  with  such  an  appearance  of  truth 
and  simplicity,  that  he  concluded  his  person  was  quite  secure  ; 
and,  after  having  been  regaled  with  a  dish  of  eggs  and  bacon, 
desired  she  would  conduct  him  into  the  chamber  where  she  pro- 
posed he  should  take  his  repose.  He  was  accordingly  usher*  d 
up  by  a  sort  of  ladder  into  an  apartment  furnished  with  a  stand- 
ing bed,  and  almost  half  filled  with  trusses  of  straw.  He  seemed 
extremely  well  pleased  with  his  lodging,  which  in  reality  ex* 
ceeded  his  expectations  ;  and  his  kind  landlady,  cautioning  him 
against  letting  the  candle  approach  the  combustibles,  took  her 
leave,  and  locked  the  door  on  the  outside. 

III. 

74.  COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE. 

TART    SECOND. 

FATHOM,  whose  own  principles  taught  him  to  be  suspicious, 
and  ever  upon  his  guard  against  the  treachery  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  covdd  have  dispensed  with  this  instance  of  her  care  in 
confining  her  guest  to  her  chamber  ;  and  began  to  be  seized  with 
strange  fancies,  when  he  observed  that  there  was  no  bolt  on  tho 
inside  of  the  door,  by  which  he  might  secure  himself  from  intru- 
sion. In  consequence  of  these  suggestions,  he  proposed  to  take 
an  accurate  sur'vey  of  every  object  in  the  aparment,  and,  in  the 


264:  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

course  of  his  inqui'ry,  had  the  mortification  to  find  the  dead 
body  of  a  man,  still  warm,  who  had  been  lately  stabbed,  and 
concealed  beneath  several  bundles  of  straw. 

2.  Such  a  discovery  could  not  fail  to  fill  the  breast  of  our  hero 
with  unspeakable  horror  ;  for  he  concluded  that  he  himself  would 
undergo  the  same  fate  before  morning,  without  the  interposition 
of  a  miracle  in  his  favor.  In  the  first  transports  of  his  dread  ho 
ran  to  the  window,  with  a  view  to  escape  by  that  outlet,  and 
found  his  flight  effectually  obstructed  by  divers  strong  bars  of 
iron.  Then  his  heart  began  to  palpitate,  his  hair  to  bristle  up, 
and  his  knees  to  totter  :  his  thoughts  teemed  with  presages  of 
death  and  destruction  ;  his  conscience  rose  up  in  judgment 
against  him  ;  and  he  underwent  a  severe  paroxysm  of  dismay 
and  distraction.  His  spirits  were  agitated  into  a  state  of  fer- 
mentation that  produced  an  energy  akin  to  that  which  is  inspired 
by  brandy  or  other  strong  liquors  ;  and,  by  an  impulse  that 
seemed  supernatural,  he  was  immediately  hurried  into  measures 
for  his  own  preservation. 

3.  What  upon  a  less  interesting  occasion  his  imagination 
durst  not  propose,  he  now  executed  without  scruple  or  remorse. 
He  undressed  the  corpse  that  lay  bleeding  among  the  straw,  and 
conveying  it  to  the  bed  in  his  arms,  deposited  it  in  the  attitude 
of  a  person  who  sleeps  at  his  ease  ;  then  he  extinguished  the 
light,  took  possession  of  the  place  from  whence  the  body  had 
been  removed,  and  holding  a  pistol  ready  cocked  in  each  hand, 
waited  for  the  sequel  with  that  determined  purpose  which  is 
often  the  immediate  production  of  despair. 

4.  About  midnight  he  heard  the  sound  of  feet  ascending  the 
ladder  ;  the  door  was  softly  opened  ;  he  saw  the  shadow  of  two 
men  stalking  toward  the  bed  ;  a  dark  lantern  being  unshrouded, 
directed  their  aim  to  the  supposed  sleeper  ;  and  he  that  held  it 
thrust  a  poniard  to  his  heart.  The  force  of  the  blow  mado  a 
compression  on  the  chest,  and  a  sort  of  groan  issued  from  the 
windpipe  of  the  defunct :  the  stroke  was  repeated  without  pro- 
ducing a  repetition  of  the  note,  so  that  the  assassins  concluded 
the  work  was  effectually  done,  and  retired  for  the  present,  with 
a  design  to  return  and  rifle  the  deceased  at  their  leisure. 

5.  Never  had  our  hero  spent  a  moment  in  such  agony  as  he 
felt  during  this  operation.  The  whole  surface  of  his  body  was 
covered  with  a  cold  sweat,  and  his  nerves  were  relaxed  with  a 


COUNT  FATHOM'S  ADVENTURE.  265 

universal  palsy.  In  short,  he  remained  in  a  trance,  that  in  all 
probability  contributed  to  his  safety  ;  for  had  he  retained  the  uso 
of  his  senses,  he  might  have  been  discovered  by  the  transports 
of  his  fear.  The  first  use  he  made  of  his  retrieved  recollection, 
was  to  perceive  that  the  assassins  had  left  the  door  open  in  their 
retreat ;  and  he  would  have  instantly  availed  himself  of  this  their 
neglect,  by  sallying  out  upon  them  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  had 
not  he  been  restrained  by  a  conversation  he  overheard  in  the 
room  below,  importing  that  the  ruffians  were  going  to  set  out 
upon  another  expedition,  in  hopes  of  finding  more  prey. 

G.  They  accordingly  departed,  after  having  laid  strong  injunc- 
tions on  the  old  woman  to  keep  the  door  fast  locked  during  their 
absence ;  and  Ferdinand  took  his  resolution  without  further 
delay.  So  soon  as,  by  his  conjecture,  the  robbers  were  at  a  suf- 
ficient distance  from  the  house,  he  rose  from  his  lurking-place, 
moved  softly  toward  the  bed,  and  rummaging  the  pockets  of 
the  deceased,  found  a  purse  well  stored  with  ducats,  of  which, 
together  with  a  silver  watch  and  a  diamond  ring,  he  immediately 
possessed  himself  without  scruple  ;  and  then,  descending  with 
great  care  and  circumspection  into  the  lower  apartment,  stood 
before  the  old  beldam,  before  she  had  the  least  intimation  of  his 
approach. 

7.  Accustomed  as  she  was  to  the  trade  of  blood,  the  hoary 
hag  did  not  behold  this  apparation  without  giving  signs  of  infi- 
nite terror  and  astonishment.  Believing  it  was  no  other  than 
the  spirit  of  her  second  guest,  who  had  been  murdered,  she  feQ 
upon  her  knees,  and  began  to  recommend  herself  to  the  protec- 
tion of  the  saints,  crossing  herself  with  as  much  devotion  as  if 
she  had  been  entitled  to  the  particular  care  and  attention  of 
Heaven.  Nor  did  her  anxiety  abate  when  she  was  undeceived 
in  this  her  supposition,  and  understood  it  was  no  phantom,  but 
the  real  substance  of  the  stranger  ;  who,  without  staying  to 
upbraid  her  with  the  enormity  of  her  crimes,  commanded  her, 
on  pain  of  immediate  death,  to  produce  his  horse  ;  to  which 
being  conducted,  ho  set  her  on  the  saddle  without  delay,  and 
mounting  behind,  invested  her  with  the  management  of  the 
reins,  swearing,  in  a  most  peremptory  tone.,  that  the  only  chance 
for  her  life  was  in  directing  him  to  the  next  town  ;  and  that  as 
soon  as  she  should  give  him  the  least  cause  to  doubt  her  fidelity 
in  the  performance  of  that  task,  he  would  on  the  instant  act  the 
part  of  her  executioner.  ,« 


266  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

8.  This  declaration  had  its  effect  on  the  withered  Hec'ate,1 
who,  with  many  supplications  for  mercy  and  forgiveness,  promised 
to  guide  him  in  safety  to  a  certain  village  at  the  distance  of  two 
leagues,  where  he  might  lodge  in  security,  and  be  provided  with 
a  fresh  horse,  or  other  conveniences  for  pursuing  his  route.  On 
these  conditions  he  told  her  she  might  deserve  his  clemency  ; 
and  they  accordingly  took  their  departure  together,  she  being 
placed  astride  upon  the  saddle,  holding  the  bridle  in  one  hand, 
and  a  switch  in  the  other,  and  our  adventurer  sitting  on  the  I 
crupper  superintending  her  conduct,  and  keeping  the  muzzle  of 
a  pistol  close  to  her  ear.  In  this  equipage 2  they  traveled  across 
part  of  the  same  wood  in  which  his  guide  had  forsaken  him  ;  and 
it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  he  passed  his  time  in  the  most 
agreeable  reverie,  while  he  found  himself  involved  in  the  laby- 
rinth of  those  shades,  which  he  considered  as  the  haunts  of 
robbery  and  assassination. 

9.  Common  fear  was  a  comfortable  sensation  to  what  he  felt 
in  this  excursion.3  The  first  steps  he  had  taken  for  his  preser- 
vation were  the  effect  of  mere  instinct,  while  his  faculties  were 
extinguished  or  suppressed  by  despair  ;  but  now,  as  his  reflection 
began  to  recur,  he  was  haunted  by  the  most  intolerable  appre- 
hensions. Every  whisper  of  the  wind  through  the  thickets  was 
swelled  into  the  hoarse  menaces  of  murder  ;  the  shaking  of  the 
boughs  was  construed  into  the  brandishing  of  poniards  ;  and 
every  shadow  of  a  tree  became  the  apparition  of  a  ruffian  eager 
for  blood.  In  short,  at  each  of  these  occurrences  he  felt  what 
was  infinitely  more  tormenting  than  the  stab  of  a  real  dagger  ; 
and  at  every  fresh  fillip  of  his  fear,  he  acted  as  a  remembrancer  to 
his  conductress  in  a  new  volley  of  imprecations,4  importing,  that 
her  life  was  absolutely  connected  with  his  opinion  of  his  own  safety. 

10.  Human  nature  could  not  long  subsist  under  such  compli- 
cated terror  ;  but  at  last  he  found  himself  clear  of  the  forest, 

1  H&c'  ate,  represented  in  mythol-  being,  regardless  of  demons  end  tcr- 

©gy  as  a  mysterious  divinity  who  rible  phantoms  from  the  lower  world, 

ruled  in  heaven,  on  the  earth,  and  in  who  taught  sorcery,  witchcraft,  nnd 

the  sea,bestowing  on  mortalswealth,  dwelt   at    places    where    two   reads 

victory,  wisdom  ;  good  luck  to  sailors  crossed,  on  tombs,  and  near  the  blood 

and  hunters,  and  prosperity  to  youth  of  murdered  persons, 

and  to  the  flocks  of  cattle.     She  was  -  Equipage,  (£k'  we  ]  ;\j). 

afterward,  however,  regarded  by  the  3  Excursion,  (eke  kSr'  shun). 

Athenians  and  others  as  a  spectral  *  Imv  pro  ca'  tions,  curses. 


DARKNESS.  2G7 

and  was  blessed  with  a  distant  view  of  an  inhabited  place.  He 
yielded  to  the  first  importunity  of  the  beldam,  whom  he  dis- 
missed at  a  very  small  distance  from  the  village,  after  he  had 
earnestly  exhorted  her  to  quit  such  an  atrocious  course  of  life, 
and  atone  for  her  past  crimes  by  sacrificing  her  associates  to  the 
demands  of  justice.  She  did  not  fail  to  vow  a  perfect  reforma- 
tion, and  to  prostrate  herself  before  him  for  the  favor  she  had 
found  ;  then  she  betook  herself  to  her  habitation,  with  the  full 
purpose  of  advising  her  fellOw-murderers  to  repair  with  all  dis- 
patch to  the  village  and  impeach  our  hero  ;  who,  wisely  distrust- 
ing her  professions,  stayed  no  longer  in  the  place  than  to  hire 
a  guide  for  the  next  stage,  which  brought  him  to  the  city  of 
Chalons-sur-Marne. '  Smollett. 

Tobias  George  Smollett  was  born  in  the  County  of  Dumbarton,  Scotland,  in 
1721.  His  father,  a  younger  son  of  Sir  James  Smollett,  of  Bonhill,  having  died 
early,  he  was  educated  by  his  grandfather,  in  Glasgow,  for  the  medical  profes- 
sion. At  nineteen,  his  grandfather  having  died  without  making  a  provision  for 
him,  the  young  author  proceeded  to  London  with  his  first  work,  "The  Regi- 
cide," which  he  attempted  to  bring  out  at  the  theaters.  Foiled  in  this  juvenile 
effort,  in  1741  he  became  a  surgeon's  mate  in  the  navy,  and  was  present  in  the 
unfortunate  expedition  to  Carthagcna,  spent  some  time  elsewhere  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  returned  to  England  in  174G.  Thenceforth  he  resided  chiefly  in 
London,  and  became  an  author  for  life.  His  first  novel,  "Roderick  Random," 
appeared  in  174S.  From  this  date  to  that  of  his  last  production,  Smollett  im- 
proved in  taste  and  judgment,  but  his  power  of  invention,  his  native  humor,  and 
his  knowledge  of  life  and  character,  are  as  conspicuous  in  this  as  in  any  of  his 
works.  He  had  fine  poetic  talents,  but  wrote  no  extended  poem.  His  novel  of 
"  Count  Fathom"  appeared  in  1753.  The  above  scene,  extracted  from  this  work, 
is  universally  regarded  as  a  masterpiece  of  interest ;  a  mixture  of  the  terrible  and 
the  probable  that  has  never  been  surpassed.  The  writing  is  as  fine  as  the  con- 
ception. In  1770,  Smollett  was  compelled  to  seek  for  health  In  a  warm  climate. 
He  took  up  his  residence  in  a  cottage  near  Leghorn.  Here,  just  before  his  death, 
in  the  autumn  of  1771,  he  finished  his  "Humphrey  Clinker,"  the  most  rich, 
varied,  and  agreeable  of  all  his  novels. 

IV. 
75,     DARKNESS. 

I  HAD  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream. 
The  bright  sun  was  extinguished,  and  the  §tars 
Did  wander,  darkling,  in  the  eternal  space, 
Rayless  and  pathless,  arid  the  icy  earth 


1  Chalons-sur-Marne,  (shilling'  eer  marn\  a  city  of  France,  capital  of  the 
department  of  Marne,  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river  Marne,  ninety  miles  E 
of  Paris. 


2c>8  national  fifth  reader. 

Swung  blind  and  blackening  in  the  moonless  air. 

Morn  came,  and  went — and  came,  and  brought  no  day, 

And  men  forgot  their  passions,  in  the  dread 

Of  this  their  desolation  ;  and  all  hearts 

"Were  chilled  into  a  selfish  prayer  for  light. 

And  they  did  live  by  watch-fires  ;  and  the  thrones, 

The  palaces  of  crowned  kings,  the  huts, 

The  habitations  of  all  things  which  dwell, 

Were  burnt  for  beacons  :  cities  were  consumed, 

And  men  were  gathered  round  their  blazing  homes, 

To  look  once  more  into  each  other's  face. 

Happy  were  those  who  dwelt  within  the  eye 

Of  the  volcanoes  and  their  mountain  torch. 

2.  A  fearful  hope  was  all  the  world  contained  : 
Forests  were  set  on  fire  ;  but,  hour  by  hour, 
They  fell  and  faded  ;  and  the  crackling  trunks 
Extinguished  with  a  crash — and  all  was  black. 
The  brows  of  men,  by  their  despairing  light, 
Wore  an  unearthly  aspect,  as,  by  fits, 

The  flashes  fell  upon  them.     Some  lay  down, 

And  hid  their  eyes,  and  wept  ;  and  some  did  rest 

Their  chins  upon  their  clenched  hands,  and  smiled  ; 

And  others  hurried  to  and  fro,  and  fed 

Their  funeral  piles  with  fuel,  and  looked  up, 

With  mad  disquietude,  on  the  dull  sky, 

The  pall  of  a  past  world  ;  and  then  again 

With  curses,  cast  them  down  upon  the  dust, 

And  gnashed  their  teeth,  and  howled.  The  wild  birds  shrieked, 

And,  terrified,  did  flutter  on  the  ground, 

And  flap  their  useless  wings  :  the  wildest  brutes 

Came  tame,  and  tremulous  ;  and  vipers  crawled 

And  twined  themselves  among  the  multitude, 

Hissing,  but  stingless — they  were  slain  for  food. 

3,  And  War,  which  for  a  moment  was  no  more, 
Did  glut  himself  again  : — a  meal  was  bought 
With  blood,  and  each  sat  sullenly  apart, 
Gorging  himself  in  gloom  ;  ng  love  was  left ; 
All  earth  was  but  one  thought — and  that  was  death, 
Immediate  and  inglorious  ;  and  the  pang 
Of  famine  fed  upon  all  entrails.     Men 


DARKNESS.  269 

Died  ;  and  their  bones  were  tombless  as  their  flesh 
The  meager  by  the  meager  were  devoured. 
Even  dogs  assailed  their  masters, — all  save  one, 
And  he  was  faithful  to  a  corse,  and  kept 
The  birds,  and  beasts,  and  famished  men  at  bay, 
Till  hunger  clung  them,  or  the  drooping  dead 
Lured  their  lank  jaws  :  himself  sought  out  no  food, 
But,  with  a  piteous,  and  perpetual  moan, 
And  a  quick,  desolate  cry,  licking  the  hand 
"Which  answered  not  with  a  caress — he  died. 

4.  The  crowd  was  famished  by  degrees.     But  two 
Of  an  enormous  city  did  survive, 

And  they  were  enemies.     They  met  beside 

The  dying  embers  of  an  altar-place, 

"Where  had  been  heaped  a  mass  of  holy  things 

For  an  unholy  usage.     They  raked  up, 

And,  shivering,  scraped  with  their  cold,  skeleton  hands, 

The  feeble  ashes  :  and  their  feeble  breath 

Blew  for  a  little  life,  and  made  a  flame, 

"Which  was  a  mockery.     Then  they  lifted 

Their  eyes  as  it  grew  lighter,  and  beheld 

Each  other's  aspects— saw,  and  shrieked,  and  died  ; 

Even  of  their  mutual  hideousness  they  died, 

Unknowing  who  he  was,  upon  whose  brow 

Famine  had  written  Fiend. 

5.  The  world  was  void  : 
The  populous  and  the  powerful  was  a  lump, 
Seasonltss,  /icrbless,  treeless,  manless,  lifeless  ; 
A  lump  of  death,  a  chaos  of  hard  clay. 

The  rivers,  lakes,  and  ocean,  all  stood  still, 

And  nothing  stirred  within  their  silent  depths. 

Ships,  sailorless,  lay  rotting  on  the  sea, 

And  their  masts  fell  down  piecemeal  :  as  they  dropped 

They  slept  on  the  abyss,  without  a  surge, — 

The  waves  were  dead  ;  the  tides  were  in  their  grave  ; 

The  moon,  their  mistress,  had  expired  before  ; 

The  winds  were  withered  in  the  stagnant  air, 

And  the  clouds  perished  :  Darkness  had  no  need 

Of  aid  from  them — she  was  the  universe. 

Lord  Byron. 


270  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER, 

V. 

76.     THE    RATTLESNAKE.1 

"  "T  J"E  does  not  come — lie  does  not  come,"  she  murmured,  as 
1  1  she  stood  contemplating  the  thick  copse  spreading  be- 
fore her,  and  forming  the  barrier  which  terminated  the  beautiful 
range  of  oaks  which  constituted  the  grove.  How  beautiful  were 
the  green  and  garniture  of  that  little  copse  of  wood !  The  leaves 
were  thick,  and  the  grass  around  lay  folded  over  and  over  in 
bunches,  with  here  and  there  a  wild  flower,  gleaming  from  its 
green,  and  making  of  it  a  beautiful  carpet  of  the  richest  and 
most  various  texture.  A  small  tree  rose  from  the  center  of  a 
clump,  around  which  a  wild  grape  gadded  luxuriantly  ;  and, 
with  an  incoherent  sense  of  what  she  saw,  she  lingered  before 
the  little  cluster,  seeming  to  survey'  that  which,  though  it  seemed 
to  fix  her  eye,  yet  failed  to  fill  her  thought.  Her  mind  wan- 
dered— her  soul  was  far  away  ;  and  the  objects  in  her  vision 
were  far  other  than  those  which  occupied  her  imagination. 

2.  Things  grew  indistinct  beneath  her  eye.  The  eye  rather 
slept  than  saw.  The  musing  spirit  had  given  holiday  to  the 
ordinary  senses,  and  took  no  heed  of  the  forms  that  rose,  and 
floated,  or  glided  away  before  them.  In  this  way,  the  leaf  de- 
tached made  no  impression  upon  the  sight  that  was  yet  bent 
upon  it  ;  she  saw  not  the  bird,  though  it  whirled,  untroubled  by 
a  fear,  in  wanton  circles  around  her  head  ;  and  the  blacksnake, 
with  the  rapidity  of  an  arrow,  darted  over  her  path  without 
arousing  a  single  terror  in  the  form  that  otherwise  would  have 
shivered  at  its  mere  appearance.  And  yet,  though  thus  indistinct 
were  all  things  around  her  to  the  musing  eye  of  the  maiden,  her 
eye  was  yet  singularly  fixed — fastened,  as  it  were,  to  a  single 
spot — gathered  and  controled  by  a  single  object,  and  glazed, 
apparently,  beneath  a  curious  fascination. 

3.  Before  the  maiden  rose  a  little  clump  of  bushes, — bright 
tangled  leaves  flaunting  wide  in  glossiest  green,  with  vines  trail- 
ing over  them,  thickly  decked  with  blue  and  crimson  flowers. 
Her  eye  communed  vacantly  with  these  ;  fastened  by  a  star-like 
shining  glance,  a  subtle  ray,  that  shot  out  from  the  circle  of 

1  From  "  The  Yemassee."  The  heroine,  Bess  Mathews,  in  the  woods 
waits  the  coming  of  her  lover. 


THE    RATTLESNAKE.  271 

green  leaves — seeming  to  be  their  very  eye — and  sending  out  a 
lurid  luster  that  seemed  to  stream  across  the  space  between,  and 
find  its  way  into  her  own  eyes.  Very  piercing  and  beautiful 
was  that  subtle  brightness,  of  the  sweetest,  strangest  power. 
And  now  the  leaves  quivered  and  seemed  to  float  away,  only  to 
return  ;  and  the  vines  waved  and  swung  around  in  fantastic 
mazes,  unfolding  ever-changing  varieties  of  form  and  color  to 
her  gaze  :  but  the  star-like  eye  was  ever  steadfast,  bright,  and 
gorgeous,  gleaming  in  their  midst,  and  still  fastened,  with  strange 
fondness,  upon  her  own.  How  beautiful  with  wondrous  inten- 
sity did  it  gleam  and  dilate,  growing  larger  and  more  lustrous 
with  every  ray  which  it  sent  forth ! 

4.  And  her  own  glance  became  intense,  fixed  also  ;  but  with 
a  dre:iming  sense  that  conjured  up  the  wildest  fancies,  terribly 
beautiful,  that  took  her  soul  away  from  her,  and  wrapt  it  about 
as  with  a  spell.  She  would  have  fled,  she  would  have  flown  ; 
but  she  had  not  the  power  to  move.  The  will  wras  wanting  to  her 
flight.  She  felt  that  she  could  have  bent  forward  to  pluck  the 
gem-like  thing  from  the  bosom  of  the  leaf  in  which  it  seemed  to 
grow,  and  which  it  irradiated  with  its  bright  white  gleam  ;  but 
ever  as  she  aimed  to  stretch  forth  her  hand,  and  bend  forward, 
she  heard  a  rush  of  wings,  and  a  shrill  scream  from  the  tree 
above  her, — such  a  scream  as  the  mock-bird  makes,  when  angrily 
it  raises  its  dusky  crest,  and  flaps  its  wings  furiously  against 
its  slender  sides.  Such  a  scream  seemed  like  a  warning,  and 
though  yet  unawakencd  to  full  consciousness,  it  startled  her  and 
forbade  her  effort.  More  than  once,  in  her  sur'vev  of  this  strange 
object,  had  she  heard  that  shrill  note,  and  still  had  it  carried  to 
her  ear  the  same  note  of  warning,  and  to  her  mind  the  same 
vague  consciousness  of  an  evil  presence. 

5.  But  the  star-like  eye  was  yet  upon  her  own — a  small, 
bright  eye,  quick,  like  that  of  a  bird,  now  steady  in  its  place, 
and  observant  seemingly  only  of  hers,  now  darting  forward  with 
all  the  clustering  leaves  about  it,  and  shooting  up  toward  her,  as 
if  wooing  her  to  seize.  At  another  moment  riveted  to  the  vine 
which  lav  around  it,  it  would  whirl  round  and  round,  dazzlinglv 
bright  and  beautiful,  even  as  a  torch,  waving  hurriedly  by  night 
in  the  hands  of  some  playful  boy.  But,  in  all  this  time,  the 
glance  was  never  taken  from  her  own  :  there  it  grew,  fixed — a 
very  principle  of  light  *,  and  such  a  light — a  subtle,  burning, 


272  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

piercing,  fascinating  gleam,  such  as  gathers  in  vapor  above  the 
old  grave,  and  binds  us  as  we  look — shooting,  darting  directly 
into  her  eye,  dazzling  her  gaze,  defeating  its  sense  of  discrimi- 
nation, and  confusing  strangely  that  of  perception. 

6.  She  felt  dizzy,  for,  as  she  looked,  a  cloud  of  colors — bright, 
gay,  various  colors — floated  and  hung  like  so  much  drapery 
around  the  single  object  that  had  so  secured  her  attention  and 
spell-bound  her  feet.  Her  hmbs  felt  momently  more  and  more 
insecure  :  her  blood  grew  cold,  and  she  seemed  to  feci  the 
gradual  freeze  of  vein  by  vein,  throughout  her  person.  At  that 
moment  a  rustling  was  heard  in  the  branches  of  the  tree  beside 
her,  and  the  bird,  which  had  repeatedly  uttered  a  single  cry 
above  her,  as  it  were  of  warning,  flew  away  from  his  station 
with  a  scream  more  piercing  than  ever.  This  movement  had 
the  effect  for  which  it  really  seemed  intended,  of  bringing  back 
to  her  a  portion  of  the  consciousness  she  seemed  so  totally  to 
have  been  deprived  of  before. 

7.  She  strove  to  move  from  before  the  beautiful  but  terrible 
presence,  but  for  a  while  she  strove  in  vain.  The  rich,  star-like 
glance  still  riveted  her  own,  and  the  subtle  fascination  kept  her 
bound.  The  mental  energies,  however,  with  the  moment  of  their 
greatest  trial,  now  gathered  suddenly  to  her  aid  ;  and,  with  a 
desperate  effort,  but  with  a  feeling  still  of  annoying  uncertainty 
and  dread,  she  succeeded  partly  in  the  attempt,  and  threw  her 
arms  backward,  her  hands  grasping  the  neighboring  tree, — 
feeble,  tottering,  and  depending  upon  it  for  that  support  which 
her  own  Hmbs  almost  entirely  denied  her.  "With  her  movement, 
however,  came  the  full  development  of  the  powerful  spell  and 
dreadful  mystery  before  her.  As  her  feet  receded,  though  but 
a  single  pace,  to  the  tree  against  which  she  now  rested,  the 
audibly  articulated  ring,  like  that  of  a  watch  when  wound  up 
with  the  verge  broken,  announced  the  nature  of  that  splendid 
yet  dangerous  presence,  in  the  form  of  tho  monstrous  rattle- 
snake, now  but  a  few  feet  before  her,  lying  coiled  at  the  bottom 
of  a  beautiful  shrub,  with  which,  to  her  dreaming  eye,  many  of 
its  own  glorious  hues  had  become  associated. 

8.  She  was,  at  length,  conscious  enough  to  perceive  and  to 
feel  all  her  danger  ;  but  terror  had  denied  her  the  strength 
necessary  to  fly  from  her  dreadful  enemy.  There  still  the  eye 
glared  beautifully  bright  and  piercing  upon  her  own  ;  and,  seem- 


tiie  rattlesnake.  273 

ingly  in  a  spirit  of  sport,  tho  insidious  reptile  slowly  unwound 
himself  from  his  coil,  but  only  to  gather  himself  up  again  into 
his  muscular  rings,  his  great  Hat  head  rising  in  the  midst,  and 
slowly  nodding,  as  it  were,  toward  her,  the  eye  still  peering 
deeply  into  her  own  ; — the  rattle  still  slightly  ringing  at  inter- 
vals, and  giving  forth  that  paralyzing  sound,  which,  once  heard, 
is  remembered  forever.  The  reptile  all  this  while  appeared  to 
be  conscious  of,  and  to  sport  with,  while  seeking  to  excite,  her 
terrors.  Now,  with  his  flat  head,  distended  mouth,  and  curving 
neck,  would  it  dart  forward  its  long  form  toward  her, — its  fatal 
teeth,  unfolding  on  either  side  of  its  upper  jaws,  seeming  to 
threaten  her  with  instantaneous  death  ;  while  its  powerful  eye 
shot  forth  glances  of  that  fatal  power  of  fascination,  malignantly 
bright,  which,  by  paralyzing,  with  a  novel  form  of  terror  and  of 
beauty,  may  readily  account  for  the  spell  it  possesses  of  binding  the 
feat  of  the  timid,  and  denying  to  fear  even  the  privilege  of  flight. 

9.  Could  she  have  fled !  She  felt  the  necessity  ;  but  the 
j)ower  of  her  limbs  was  gone  !  and  there  still  it  lay,  coiling  and 
uncoiling,  its  arching  neck  glittering  like  a  ring  of  brazed  cop- 
per, bright  and  lurid  ;  and  the  dreadful  beauty  of  its  eye  still 
fastened,  eagerly  contemplating  the  victim,  while  the  pendulous 
rattle  still  rang  the  death-note,  as  if  to  prepare  the  conscious 
mind  for  the  fate  which  is  momently  approaching  to  the  blow. 
Meanwhile  the  stillness  became  death-like  with  all  surrounding 
objects.  The  bird  had  gone,  with  its  scream  and  rush.  The  breeze 
was  silent.  The  vines  ceased  to  wave.  The  leaves  faintly  quiv- 
ered on  their  stems.  The  serpent  once  more  lay  still ;  but  the  eve 
was  never  once  turned  away  from  the  victim.  Its  corded  mus- 
cles are  all  in  coil.  They  have  but  to  unclasp  suddenly,  and  tho 
dreadful  folds  will  be  upon  her,  its  full  length,  r.nd  the  fatal 
teeth  will  strike,  and  the  deadly  venom  which  they  secrete  will 
mingle  with  the  life-blood  in  her  veins. 

10.  The  terrified  damsel,  her  full  consciousness  restored,  but 
not  her  strength,  feels  all  the  danger.  She  sees  that  the  spurt 
of  the  terrible  reptile  is  at  an  end.  She  can  not  now  mistake 
the  horrid  expression  of  its  eye.  She  strives  to  scream,  but  the 
voice  dies  away,  a  feeble  gurgling  in  her  throat.  Her  tongue  is 
paralyzed  ;  her  lips  are  sealed.  Once  more  she  strives  for  flight, 
but  her  limbs  refuse  their  office.  She  has  nothing  left  of  life 
but  its  fearful  consciousness.     It  is  in  her  despair,  that,  a  last 


*274  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

effort,  she  succeeds  to  scream, — a  single  wild  cry,  forced  from  hef 
by  the  accumulated  agony  :  she  sinks  down  upon  the  grass 
before  her  enemy, — her  eyes,  however,  still  open,  and  still  look- 
ing upon  those  which  he  directs  forever  upon  them.  She  sees 
him  approach — now  advancing,  now  receding — now  swelling  in 
every  part  with  something  of  anger,  while  his  neck  is  arched 
beautifully,  like  that  of  a  wild  horse  under  the  curb  ;  until,  at 
length,  tired  as  it  were  of  play,  like  the  cat  with  its  victim,  she 
sees  his  neck  growing  larger  and  becoming  completely  bronzed, 
as  about  to  strike, — the  huge  jaws  unclosing  almost  directly 
above  her,  the  long  tubulated  fang,  charged  with  venom,  pro- 
truding from  the  cav'emous  mouth  ;  and  she  sees  no  more. 
Insensibility  came  to  her  aid,  and  she  lay  almost  lifeless  under 
the  very  folds  of  the  monster. 

11.  In  that  moment  the  copse  parted  ;  and  an  arrow,  piercing 
the  monster  through  and  through  the  neck,  bore  his  head  for- 
ward to  the  ground,  alongside  the  maiden,  while  his  spiral  ex- 
tremities, now  unfolding  in  his  own  agony,  were  actually,  in  part, 
writhing  upon  her  person.  The  arrow  came  from  the  fugitive 
Occonestoga,  who  had  fortunately  reached  the  spot  in  season, 
on  the  way  to  the  Block-House.  He  rushed  from  the  copse  as 
the  snake  fell,  and,  with  a  stick,  fearlessly  approached  him  where 
he  lay  tossing  in  agony  upon  the  grass.  Seeing  him  advance, 
the  courageous  reptile  made  an  effort  to  regain  his  coil,  shaking 
the  fearful  rattle  violently  at  every  evolution  which  he  took  for 
that  purpose  ;  but  the  arrow,  completely  passing  through  his 
neck,  opposed  an  unyielding  obstacle  to  the  endeavor ;  and 
■finding  it  hopeless,  and  seeing  the  new  enemy  about  to  assault 
him,  with  something  of  the  spirit  of  the  white  man  under  like 
circumstances,  he  turned  desperately  round,  and  striking  his 
charged  fangs,  so  that  they  were  riveted  in  the  wound  they 
made,  into  a  susceptible  part  of  his  own  body,  he  threw  himself 
over  with  a  single  convulsion,  and,  a  moment  after,  lay  dead  be- 
side the  utterly  unconscious  maiden.  Simms. 

"William  Gilmoke  Simms  was  born  at  Charleston,  South  Carolina,  April  17th, 
1S0G.  His  mother  died  while  he  was  an  infant,  and  his  father,  failing  60011  after 
as  a  merchant,  emigrated  to  the  West,  leaving  him  to  the  earc  of  an  aged  and 
penurious  grandmother,  who  withheld  the  appropriations  necessary  for  his  edu- 
cation. His  love  of  books,  industry,  and  richly  endowed  intellect,  however, 
triumphed  over  every  obstacle,  lie  wrote  for  the  press,  at  an  early  age,  on  a 
great  variety  of  subjects,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  in  his  native  city,  at  the 
oge  of  twenty-one.    He  did  not  long  practice  law,  but  turned  his  peculiar  traiu* 


IRVING    AND    MACAULAY.  275 

Ing  to  the  uses  of  literature.  He  bceame  editor  and  proprietor  of  the  "  Charles- 
ton City  Gazette,"  which,  though  conducted  with  industry  and  spirit,  proved  a 
failure,  owing  to  his  opposition  to  the  then  popular  doctrine  of  nullification.  He 
published  his  first  book,  "Lyrical  and  other  Poems,"  in  1826,  when  about 
eighteen  years  of  age,  followed  the  same  year  by  "Early  Lays."  k>  Atalantis," 
the  third  work  following,  a  successful  poem  with  the  publishers,  a  rarity  at  the 
time,  was  published  in  New  York,  in  1832.  It  is  written  In  smooth  blank  verse, 
interspersed  with  frequent  lyrics.  The  next  year  appeared  in  New  York  his 
first  tale,  "  Martin  Faber,"  written  in  the  intense  passionate  style,  which  secured 
at  once  public  attention.  Since  that  period  he  has  written  numerous  novels, 
histories,  biographies,  and  poems,  and  has  contributed  largely  to  reviews  and 
magazines.  In  1849  he  became  editor  of  "The  Southern  Quarterly  Review," 
which  was  revived  by  his  able  contributions  and  personal  influence.  His  writings 
are  characterized  by  their  earnestness,  sincerity,  and  thoroughness.  His  shorter 
stories  are  his  best  works.  Though  somewhat  wanting  in  elegance,  they  have 
unity,  completeness,  and  strength.  Mr.  Simms  now  resides  on  his  plantation  at 
Midway,  a  town  about  seventy  miles  southwest  of  Charleston. 


SECTION    XV. 
I. 

77.     IRVING    AND    MACAULAY. 

PAKT    FIRST. 

ALMOST  the  last  words  which  Sir  Walter  Scott  spoke  to 
Lockhart,  his  son-in-law  and  biographer,  were,  "Be  a 
good  man,  my  dear !"  and  with  the  last  flicker  of  breath  on  his 
dying  lips,  he  sighed  a  farewell  to  his  family,  and  passed  away 
blessing  them.  Two  men,  famous,  admired,  beloved,  have  just 
left  us,  the  Goldsmith  and  the  Gibbon  of  our  time.  Ere  a  few 
weeks  are  over,  many  a  critic's  pen  will  be  at  work,  reviewing 
their  lives,  and  passing  judgment  on  their  works. 

2.  This  is  no  review,  or  historv,  or  criticism  ;  onlv  a  word  in 
testimony  of  respect  and  regard  from  a  man  of  letters,  who  owes 
to  his  own  professional  labor  the  honor  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  these  two  eminent  literary  men.  One  was  the  first  ambas- 
sador whom  the  New  "World  of  Letters  sent  to  the  Old.  He 
was  born  almost  with  the  Republic  ;  the  pater  patrice '  had  laid 
his  hand  on  the  child's  head.     He  bore  "Washington's2  name  : 

1  Pa'  ter  pat'  ri  ae,  father  of  his    er-in-chief  of  the  army  of  independ- 

country.  enceduringthe  American  Revolution, 

«  George  Washington,  command-    first  President  of  the  United  States, 


276  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

he  cams  among  U3  bringing  tho  kindest  sympathy,  the  most 
artless,  smiling  good-will. 

3.  His  new  country  (which  some  people  here  might  be  dis- 
posed to  regard  rather  superciliously)  could  send  us,  as  he 
showed  in  his  own  person,  a  gentleman,  who,  though  himself 
born  in  no  very  high  sphere,  was  most  finished,  polished,  easy, 
witty,  quiet,  and,  socially,  the  equal  of  the  most  refined  Europe'- 
ans.  If  Irving's  welcome  in  England  was  a  kind  one,  was  it  not 
also  gratefully  remembered  ?  If  he  ate  our  salt,  did  he  not  pay 
us  with  a  thankful  heart  ? 

4.  In  America  the  love  and  regard  for  Irving  was  a  national 
sentiment.  It  seemed  to  me,  during  a  year's  travel  in  the 
country,  as  if  no  one  ever  aimed  a  blow  at  Irving.  All  men 
held  their  hand  from  that  harmless,  friendly  peacemaker.  I  had 
the  good  fortune  to  see  him  at  New  York,  Philadelphia,  Balti- 
more, and  Washington,  and  remarked  how  in  every  place  he  was 
honored  and  welcomed.  Every  large  city  has  its  "  Irving  House." 
The  country  takes  pride  in  the  fame  of  its  men  of  letters. 

5.  The  gate  of  his  own  charming  little  domain  on  the  beautiful 
Hudson  River  was  forever  swinging  before  visitors  who  came 
to  him.  He  shut  out  no  one.  I  had  seen  many  pictures  of  his 
house,  and  read  descriptions  of  it,  in  both  of  which  it  was  treated 
with  a  not  unusual  American  exaggeration.  It  was  but  a  pretty 
little  cabin  of  a  place  ;  the  gentleman  of  the  press  who  took 
notes  of  it,  while  his  kind  old  host  wras  sleeping,  might  have 
visited  the  house  in  a  couple  of  minutes. 

6.  And  how  came  it  that  this  house  was  so  small,  when  Mr. 
Irving's  books  were  sold  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  nay,  millions, 
— when  his  profits  were  known  to  be  large,  and  the  habits  of 
life  of  the  good  old  bachelor  were  notoriously  modest  and  sim- 
ple ?  Ho  had  loved  once  in  his  life.  The  lady  he  loved  died  ; 
and  he,  whom  all  the  world  loved,  never  sought  to  replace  her. 

7.  I  can't  say  how  much  the  thought  of  that  fidelity  has 
touched  me.  Does  not  the  very  cheerfulness  of  his  after  life 
add  to  the  pathos  of  that  untold  story  ?  To  grieve  always  was 
not  in  his  nature  ;  or,  when  he  had  his  sorrow,  to  bring  all  tho 
world  in  to  condole  wdth  him  and  bemoan  it.     Deep  and  quiet 

styled  the  "  Father  of  his  Country,"  He  retired  from  public  life  in  179G, 
was  born  in  Westmoreland,  Yir-  and  died  December  14th,  1700,  lcav- 
ginio,  on  the  $38  of  February,  17^.     ing  a  reputation  without  a  stain.  ' 


IRVING    AND    MACAULAY.  277 

ho  lays  the  lovo  of  Iris  heart,  and  buries  it,  and  grass  and  flowers 
grow  over  the  scarred  ground  in  duo  time.       J 

8.  Irving  had  sueh  a  small  house  and  such  narrow  rooms  be- 
cause there  was  a  great  number  of  people  to  occupy  them.  He 
could  only  live  very  modestly  because  the  wTifeless,  childless  man 
had  a  number  of  children  to  whom  he  was  as  a  father.  He  had 
as  many  as  nine  nieces,  I  am  told, — I  saw  two  of  these  ladies  at 
his  house, — with  all  of  whom  the  dear  old  man  had  shared  the 
produce  of  his  labor  and  genius.  "  Be  a  good  man,  my  dear." 
One  can't  but  think  of  these  last  words  of  the  veteran  Chief  of 
Letters,  who  had  tasted  and  tested  the  value  of  worldly  success, 
admiration,  prosperity.  Was  Irving  not  good,  and,  of  his 
works,  was  not  his  life  the  best  part  ? 

9.  In  his  family,  gentle,  generous,  good-humored,  affectionate, 
self-denying  ;  in  society,  a  delightful  example  of  complete  g<  n- 
tlemanhood  ;  quite  unspoiled  by  prosperity  ;  never  obsequious 
to  the  great  (or,  worse  still,  to  the  base  and  mean,  as  some  public 
men  are  forced  to  be  in  his  and  other  countries) ;  eager  to  ac- 
knowledge every  contemporary's  merit ;  always  kind  and  affa- 
ble with  the  young  members  of  his  calling  ;  in  his  professional 
bargains  and  iner'cantile  dealings  delicately  honest  and  grateful; 
he  was  at  the  same  time  one  of  the  must  charming  masters  of 
our  lighter  language  ;  the  constant  friend  to  us  and  our  nation  ; 
to  men  of  letters  doubly  dear,  not  for  his  wit  and  genius  merely, 
but  as  an  exemplar  of  goodness,  probity,  and  a  pure  life ! 

n. 

78.     IRVING    AND    MACAULAY. 

PART    SECOND. 

AS  for  Macaulay,  whose  departure  many  friends,  some  few 
most  dearly-loved  relatives,  and  multitudes  of  admiring 
readers  deplore,  our  Republic1  has  already  decreed  his  statue, 
and  he  must  have  known  that  he  had  earned  this  post'hunious* 
honor.  He  was  not  a  poet  and  man  of  letters  merely,  but  a 
citizen,  a  statesman,  a  great  British  worthy.  All  sorts  of  suc- 
cesses are  easy  to  him  :  as  a  lad  he  goes  down  into  the  arena 

1  Our  Republic,  meaning  "  the  2  Pfist'  hu  mous,  continuing  after 
Republic  of  letters."  one's  death. 


278  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

with  others,  and  wins  all  the  prizes  to  which  he  has  a  mind.  A 
place  in  the  Senate  is  straightway  offered  to  the  young  man. 
He  takes  his  seat  there  ;  he  speaks,  when  so  minded,  without 
party  anger  or  intrigue,  but  not  without  party  faith  and  a  sort 
of  heroic  enthusiasm  for  his  cause.  Still  he  is  poet  and  philo- 
sopher even  more  than  orator. 

2.  If  a  company  of  giants  were  got  together,  very  likely  one 
or  two  of  the  mere  six-feet-six  people  might  be  angry  at  the  in* 
contestable  superiority  of  the  very  tallest  of  the  party  ;  and  so 
I  have  heard  some  London  wits,  rather  peevish  at  Macaulay's 
superiority,  complain  that  he  occupied  too  much  of  the  talk, 
and  so  forth.  Now  that  wonderful  tongue  is  to  speak  no  more, 
will  not  many  a  man  grieve  that  he  no  longer  has  the  chance  to 
listen  ?  To  remember  the  talk  is  to  wonder  ;  to  think  not  only 
of  the  treasures  he  had  in  his  memory,  but  of  the  trifles  he  had 
stored  there,  and  could  produce  with  equal  readiness. 

3.  Many  Londoners — not  all — have  seen  the  British  Muse'uni 
Library, — the  dome  where  our  million  volumes  are  housed. 
What  peace,  what  love,  what  truth,  what  beauty,  what  happiness 
for  all,  what  generous  kindness  for  you  and  me,  are  here  spread 
out !  It  seems  to  me  one  can  not  sit  down  in  that  place  without 
a  heart  full  of  grateful  reverence.  I  own  to  have  said  my  grace 
at  the  table  and  to  have  thanked  Heaven  for  this  my  English 
birthright,  freely  to  partake  of  these  bountiful  books,  and  to 
speak  the  truth  I  find  there. 

4.  Under  the  dome  which  held  Macaulay's  brain,  and  from 
which  his  solemn  eyes  looked  out  on  the  world  but  a  fortnight 
since,  what  a  vast,  brilliant,  and  wonderful  store  of  learning 
was  ranged ! — what  strange  lore  would  he  not  fetch  for  you  at 
your  bidding !  A  volume  of  law  or  history,  a  book  of  poetry 
familiar  or  forgotten  (except  by  himself,  who  forgot  nothing),  a 
novel  ever  so  old,  and  he  had  it  at  hand ! 

5.  "With  regard  to  Macaulay's  style,  there  may  be  faults  of 
course  ;  but  we  are  not  talking  about  faults.  Take  at  hazard 
any  three  pages  of  his  Essays  or  of  his  History  ;  and,  glimmer- 
ing below  the  stream  of  the  narrative,  as  it  were,  you,  an  average 
reader,  see  one,  two,  three,  a  half-score  of  allusions  to  other  his- 
toric facts,  characters,  literature,  poetry,  with  which  you  are  not 
acquainted.  "Why  is  this  epithet  used  ?  AVhence  is  that  simile 
drawn  ?    How  does  he  manage,  in  two  or  three  words,  to  paint 


IRVING    AND    MACAULAY.  279 

an  individual,  or  to  indicato  a  landscape?  He  reads  twenty 
books  to  write  a  sentence  ;  ho  travels  a  hundred  miles  to  make 
a  lino  of  description ! 

6.  One  paper  I  have  read  regarding  Lord  Macaulay  says  "he 
had  no  heart."  Why,  a  man's  books  may  not  always  speak  tho 
truth,  but  they  speak  his  mind  in  spite  of  himself  ;  and  it  seems 
to  me  this  man's  heart  is  beating  through  every  page  he  penned. 
He  is  always  in  a  storm  of  revolt  and  indignation  against  wrong, 
craft,  tyranny.  How  he  cheers  heroic  resistance  ;  how  he  backs 
and  applauds  freedom  struggling  for  its  own ;  how  he  hates 
scoundrels,  ever  so  victorious  and  successful ;  how  he  recognizes 
genius,  though  selfish  villains  possess  it ! 

7.  Tho  critic  who  says  Macaulay  had  no  heart,  might  say  that 
Johnson  had  none  ;  and  two  men  more  generous,  and  more 
loving,  and  more  hating,  and  more  partial,  and  more  noble,  do 
not  live  in  our  history.  Those  who  knew  Lord  Maeaulav  knew 
how  ad'mirably  tender,  and  generous,  and  affectionate  he  was. 
It  was  not  his  business  to  bring  his  family  before  the  theater 
footlights,  and  call  for  bouquets  from  the  gallery  as  he  wept 
over  them. 

8.  If  any  young  man  of  letters  reads  this  little  sermon, — and 
to  him,  indeed,  it  is  addressed, — I  would  say  to  him,  "Bear 
Scott's  words  in  your  mind,  and  '  be  good,  my  dear.'  n  Here  are 
two  literary  men  gone  to  their  account,  and,  hits  Deo,1  as  far 
as  we  know,  that  account  is  fair,  and  open,  and  clear.  Here 
is  no  need  of  apologies  for  shortcomings,  or  explanations 
of  vices  which  would  have  been  virtues  but  for  unavoidable 
et  cetera.'1 

9.  Here  arc  two  examples  of  men  most  differently  gifted  : 
each  pursuing  his  calling  ;  each  speaking  his  truth  as  God  bade 
him  ;  each  honest  in  life  ;  just  and  irreproachable  in  his  deal- 
ings ;  dear  to  his  friends  ;  honored  by  his  country  ;  beloved  at 
his  fireside.  It  has  been  the  fortunate  lot  of  both  to  give  incal- 
culable happiness  and  delight  to  the  world,  which  thanks  them 
in  return  with  an  immense  kindliness,  respect,  affection.  It  may 
not  be  our  chance,  brother  scribe,  to  bo  endowed  with  such 
merit,  or  rewarded  with  such  fame.  But  the  rewards  of  these 
men  are  rewards  paid  to  our  service.    We  may  not  win  the  baton 3 

•  Laus  De'  o,  praise  to  God.  4  Baton,  ihtl  tong7),  a  truncheon  of 

■  Et  Jet'  era,  and  the  rest ;  Sso.        staff;  a  marshal's  staff 


280  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

or  epaulettes,1  but  Heaven  give  us  strength  to  guard  the  honor 
of  the  flag  1  Tiiackeray. 

William  Makepeace  Tiiackeray,  an  English  novelist,  essayist,  and  humor, 
ist,  was  bern  in  Calcutta  in  1811.  His  father,  who  descended  from  an  old  family 
of  Yorkshire,  was  engaged  in  the  civil  service  of  the  East  India  Company.  Ho 
was  sent  to  England  in  his  seventh  year,  and  placed  at  the  Charterhouse  School, 
London,  from  which  he  went  to  the  university  of  Cambridge,  but  did  not  take 
his  degree.  He  traveled  and  studied  for  several  years  in  France,  Italy,  and  Ger- 
many. He  contributed  to  several  leading  magazines^ind  published  works  both 
in  prose  and  verse,  commencing  before  his  thirtieth  year;  but  his  name  was  not 
generally  known  until  he  published  "  Vanity  Fair,"  which  was  finished  in  1848, 
when  he  was  generally  accounted,  with  Dickens  and  Bulwcr,  among  the  first 
British  novelists.  His  "  Pendennis,"  concluded  in  1850,  and  "  The  Ncwcomcs," 
in  1S55,  fully  sustained  his  reputation.  In  the  summer  of  1851,  he  lectured  in 
London  before  brilliant  audiences  on  "  The  English  Humorists  of  the  18th 
Century,"  the  success  of  which  induced  him  to  prepare  another  series,  "  The 
Four  Georges,"  which  were  first  delivered  in  the  principal  cities  of  the  United 
States  in  1855-'6,  and  afterward  in  London  and  most  of  the  large  towns  of  Eng- 
land and  Scotland.  In  January,  1860,  appeared  the  first  number  of  the  "  Corn- 
hill  Magazine,"  under  his  editorial  charge,  which  soon  reached  a  circulation  of 
some  one  hundred  thousand  copies.    He  died  December  24th,  1863. 

^  III. 

79.     THE    PURITANS. 

THE  Puritans 5  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar 
character  from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  beings 
and  eternal  interests.  Not  content  with  acknowledging,  in  gen- 
eral terms,  an  overruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed 
every  event  to  the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  power 
nothing  (nuth'ing)  was  too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing 
was  too  minute.  To  know  him,  to  serve  him,  to  enjoy  him,  was 
with  them  the  great  end  of  existence. 

2.  They  rejected  with  contempt  the  ceremonious  homage 
which  other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  worship  of  the  soul. 
Instead  of  catching  occasional  glimpses  of  the  Deity  through  an 
obscuring  vail,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full  on  the  intolerable  bright- 
ness, and  to  commune  with  him  face  to  face.  Hence  originated 
their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The  difference  be- 
tween the  greatest  and  meanest  of  mankind  seemed  to  vanish, 
when  compared  with  the  boundless  interval  which  separated  the 

1  Epaulettes,  (ftp'  a  lot"").  rision,    because    they    professed    to 

a  Pu'  ri  tans,  persons,  in  the  time  follow  the  pure  word  of  God,  and 

of  Queen  Elizabeth  and  her  immc-  rejected  the  ceremonies  and  govern- 

diate  successors,  so    called    in   <!c-  meat  of  the  Episcopal  Church. 


THE    PURITANS.  281 

whole  race  from  Him  on  whom  their  own  eyes  were  constantly 
fixed.  They  recognized  no  title  to  superiority  but  his  favor  ; 
and,  confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised  ah  the  accomplish- 
ments and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world. 

3.  If  they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philosophers 
and  poets,  they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God  ;  if  their 
names  were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds,  they  felt  as- 
sured that  they  were  recorded  in  the  Book  of  Life  ;  if  their  steps 
were  not  accompanied  by  a  splendid  train  of  menials,  legions  of 
ministering  angels  had  charge  over  them.  Their  palaces  were 
houses  not  made  with  hands  :  their  diadems,  crowns  of  glory 
which  should,  never  fade  away ! 

4.  On  the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they 
looked  down  with  contempt ;  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich 
in  a  more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more  sublime  lan- 
guage— nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earlier  creation,  and  priests  by 
the  imposition  of  a  mightier  hand.  The  very  meanest  of  them 
was  a  being  to  whoso  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  importance 
belonged — on  whose  slightest  actions  the  spirits  of  light  and 
darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest — who  had  been  destined, 
before  heaven  and  earth  were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which 
should  continue  when  heaven  and  earth  should  have  passed  away. 

5.  Events  which  short-sighted  politicians  ascribed  to  earthly 
causes,  had  been  ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake,  em- 
pires had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed  ;  for  his  sake,  the 
Almighty  had  proclaimed  his  will  by  the  pen  of  the  evangelist 
and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been  rescued  by  no  com- 
mon deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  common  foe  ;  he  had  been 
ransomed  by  the  sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by  the  blcod  of  no 
earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun  had  been  dark- 
ened, that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the  dead  had  arisen, 
that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expiring 

God!  Macailay. 

Thomas  Batvbtngton  Macati.av,  the  mo>t  attractive,  and  one  of  the  most 
{earned  and  eloquent  of  the  essayists  and  eritics  of  the  age,  was  educated  at 
the  University  of  Cambridge,  England,  where  he  took  his  degree  in  1822,  after 
having  achieved  the  highest  honors  of  the  university.  After  leaving  the  univer- 
sity, he  studied  law  at  Lincoln's  Inn,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1826.  He 
has  been  distinguished  in  politics,  as  an  orator  in  parliament,  and  as  an  able 
officer  of  the  Supreme  Council  in  Calcutta,  India.  He  returned  to  England  in 
1838j  and  a  few  years  later  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow, 
lie  is  very  meritorious  as  a  poet ;  but  his  poetical  merit  dwindles  into  insignifi- 
cance in  comparison  With' the  unrivaled  brilliancy  of  his  \  rose.    His"  Ess-  ys 


282  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

fi  ora  the  Edinburgh  Review"  have  been  published  in  three  volumes.  They  havt 
attained  a  greater  popularity  than  any  other  contributions  to  the  periodical  works 
of  the  day.  His  last  publication,  the  "  History  of  England."  is  written  in  a  style 
of  great  clearness,  force,  and  eloquence,  and  is  as  popular  among  all  classes  as 
any  history  of  the  present  century.  He  was  raised  to  the  peerage,  as  a  tribute 
to  his  eminent  literary  merit,  in  1857.    He  died  December  28th,  1S59. 

80.     THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

1. 

I  SAW  in  the  naked  forest  our  scattered  remnant  cast — 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches  between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them,  the  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish,  when  lo !  the  vision  passed. 

2. 

Again  mine  eyes  were  opened — the  feeble  had  waxed  strong  ; 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men,  the  remnant  was  a  throng. 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream,  and  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear  the  Christian's  godly  song. 

3. 

They  slept — the  village  fathers — by  river,  lake,  and  shore, 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  Time  the  vision  rose  once  more  : 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow  a  spectral  column  pour  ; 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks  a  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

4. 

Their  Leader  rode  before  them,  of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  Heaven's  own  kindling  throned  in  his  awful  eye  : 
These  were  a  Nation's  champions  Her  dread  appeal  to  try  ; 
"  God  for  the  right !"  I  faltered,  And  lo !  the  train  passed  by 

5. 

Once  more  ;  the  strife  was  ended,  the  solemn  issue  tried  ; 
The  Lord  of  Hosts,  his  mighty  arm  had  helped  our  Israel's  side : 
Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock,  told  where  her  martyrs  died  ; 
And  peace  was  in  the  borders  of  victory's  chosen  bride 

6. 

A  crash — as  when  some  swolfcn  cloud  cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar,  whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 
I  know  Saint  George's  blood-red  cross,  thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas ; 
But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars  roll  out  beforo  the  breoze. 


THE    ROCK    OF    THE    PILGRIMS.  283 

7. 
Ah !  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit,  whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips  that  pealed  the  Armada's 

knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  a  wreath  of  stars  rose  o'er  the  crimsoned 

swell, 
And  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak,  the  cross  of  England  fell  1 

8. 
O,  trembling  Faith !  though  dark  the  morn,  a  heavenly  torch  is 

thine  ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away,  and  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray  along  thy  jmthway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought  this  Western  Palestine ! 

9. 
I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on,  it  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador,  the  Spaniard's  "  land  of  flowers  ;" 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge  that  parts  the  Northern 

showers — 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave  the  Continent  is  ours ! 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 

V. 

81.     THE    ROCK    OF    THE    PILGRIMS. 

A  ROCK  in  the  wilderness  welcomed  our  sires, 
From  bondage  far  over  the  dark  rolling  sea  ; 
On  that  holy  altar  they  kindled  the  fires, 

Jehovah,  which  glow  in  our  bosoms  for  Thee. 

2.  Thy  blessings  descended  in  sunshine  and  shower, 

Or  rose  from  the  soil  that  was  sown  by  Thy  hand ; 
The  mountain  and  valley  rejoiced  in  Thy  power, 
And  Heaven  encircled  and  smiled  on  the  land. 

3.  The  Pilgrims  of  old  an  example  have  given 

Of  mild  resignation,  devotion,  and  love, 
Which  beams  like  a  star  in  the  blue  vault  of  heaven, 
A  beacon-light  hung  in  their  mansion  above. 

4.  In  church  and  cathedral  we  kneel  in  our  prayer— - 

Their  temple  and  chapel  were  valley  and  hill : 
But  God  is  the  same  in  the  aisle  or  the  ah*, 
And  He  is  the  Rock  that  we  lean  upon  still.     Mortus. 


284  NATIONAL   FIFTH   READER 

George  P.  Morris,  the  popular  song-writer,  -was  born  at  Philadelphia,  in  1801. 
He  commenced  his  literary  career  by  contributions  to  the  journals  at  the  early 
age  of  fifteen.  In  18:23,  with  Mr.  Woodworth,  he  established  the  "New  York 
Mirror,"  a  Meekly  miscellany,  which  was  conducted  with  much  taste  and  ability 
for  nearly  nineteen  years.  In  conjunction  with  Mr.  Willis,  he  reestablished 
"  The  Mirror"  in  1843,  which  was  soon  after  succeeded  by  "  The  Home  Journal," 
which  he  aided  in  conducting  until  a  short  time  before  his  death.  In  1827,  his 
play,  in  five  acts,  entitled  "  Brier  Cliff,  a  tale  of  the  American  Revolution,"  was 
brought  out  by  Mr.  Wallack,  and  acted  forty  nights  successively.  So  great  was 
its  popularity,  that  it  was  played  at  four  theaters  in  New  York  on  the  same 
evening,  to  full  houses,  and  yielded  its  author  a  profit  of  three  thousand  five 
hundred  dollars.  The  last  complete  edition  of  his  works  appeared  in  18G0.  He 
died  in  New  York,  July  Gth,  1864, 

VI. 

82.     ADVANTAGES    OF    ADVERSITY. 

FROM  the  dark  portals  of  the  star-chamber,  and  in  the  stern 
text  of  the  acts  of  uniformity,  the  Pilgrims  received  a  com- 
mission, more  efficient  than  any  that  ever  bore  the  royal  seal. 
Their  banishment  to  Holland  was  fortunate  ;  the  decline  of  their 
little  company  in  the  strange  land  was  fortunate  ;  the  difficulties 
which  they  experienced  in  getting  the  royal  consent  to  banish 
themselves  to  this  wilderness  were  fortunate  ;  all  the  tears  and 
heart-breakings  of  that  ever  memorable  parting  at  Delfthaven ' 
had  the  happiest  influence  on  the  rising  destinies  of  New  Eng- 
land. All  this  purified  the  ranks  of  the  settlers.  These  rough 
touches  of  fortune  brushed  off  the  light,  uncertain,  selfish  spirits. 
They  made  it  a  grave,  solemn,  self-denying  expedition,  and  re- 
quired of  those  who  engaged  in  it  to  be  so  too.  They  cast  a 
broad  shadow  of  thought  and  seriousness  over  the  cause  ;  and, 
if  this  sometimes  deepened  into  melancholy  and  bitterness,  can 
we  find  no  apology  for  such  a  human  weakness  ? 

2.  It  is  sad,  indeed,  to  reflect  on  the  disasters  which  the  little 
band  of  Pilgrims  encountered  ;  sad  to  see  a  portion  of  them, 
the  prey  of  unrelenting  cupidity,  treacherously  embarked  in  an 
unsound,  unseaworthy  ship,  which  they  are  soon  obliged  to  aban- 
don, and  crowd  themselves  into  one  vessel ;  one  hundred  per- 
sons, besides  the  ship's  company,  in  a  vessel  of  one  hundred  and 
sixty  tons.     One  is  touched  at  the  story  of  the  long,  cold,  and 

1  Delft  ha'  ven,  a  fortified  town  this  place  the  Pilgrims  of  New  Eug- 
in  South  Holland  (now  Belgium),  be-  land  took  their  last  farewell  of  their 
tween  Rotterdam  and  Schiedam.   At    European  friends. 


ADVANTAGES    OF    ADVERSITY.  v>85 

weary  autumnal  passage  ;  of  the  landing  on  the  inhospitable 
rocks  at  this  dismal  season  ;  where  they  are  deserted,  before 
long,  by  the  ship  which  had  brought  them,  and  which  seemed 
their  only  hold  upon  the  world  of  fellow-men,  a  prey  to  the 
elements  and  to  want,  and  fearfully  ignorant  of  the  numb, 
the  power,  and  the  temper  of  the  savage  tribes,  that  filled  the 
unexplored  continent,  upon  whose  verge  they  had  ventured. 

3.  Bat  all  this  wrought  together  for  good.  These  trials  of 
wandering  and  exile,  of  the  ocean,  the  winter,  the  wilderness, 
and  the  savage  foe,  were  the  final  assurances  of  success.  It  was 
these  that  put  far  away  from  our  fathers'  cause  all  patrician 
softness,  all  hcreditar}r  claims  to  preeminence.  No  effeminate 
nobility  crowded  into  the  dark  and  austere  ranks  of  the  Pilgrims. 
No  Carr  nor  Villiers '  would  lead  on  the  ill-provided  band  of 
despised  Puritans.  No  well-endowed  clergy  were  on  the  alert 
to  quit  their  cathedrals,  and  set  up  a  pompous  hierarchy  in  the 
frozen  wilderness.  No  craving  governors  were  anxious  to  bo 
sent  over  to  our  cheerless  El  Dorados2  of  ice  and  snow. 

4.  No  ;  they  could  not  say  they  had  encouraged,  patronized, 
or  helped  the  Pilgrims  :  their  own  cares,  their  own  labors,  their 
own  councils,  their  own  blood,  contrived  all,  achieved  ail,  bore 
all,  sealed  all.  They  could  not  afterward  fairly  pretend  to  reap 
where  they  had  not  strewn  ;  and,  as  our  fathers  reared  this 
broad  and  solid  fabric  with  pains  and  watchfulness,  unaided, 
barely  tolerated,  it  did  not  fall  when  the  favor,  which  had  always 
be?n  withholden,  was  changed  into  wrath  ;  when  the  arm,  which 
had  never  supported,  was  raised  to  destroy. 

5.  Methinks  I  see  it  now,  that  one  solitary,  adventurous  vessel, 
the  Mayflower  3  of  a  forlorn  hope,  freighted  with  the  prospects 
of  a  future  State,  and  bound  across  the  unknown  sea.  I  behold 
it  pursuing,  with  a  thousand  misgivings,  the  uncertain,  the  tedious 
voyage.  Suns  rise  and  set,  and  weeks  and  months  pass,  and 
winter  surprises  them  on  the  deep,  but  brings  them  not  the 
sight  of  the  wished-for  shore. 

1  Carr  and  Villiers,  the  unworthy  in  the  interior  cf    South  America, 

favorites  of  James  I.,  the   English  supposed  to  be   immensely  rich  in 

monarch.     Villiers  is  better  known  gold,  gems,  etc. 

inhistoryastheDukeof  Buckingham,         3  Mayflower,  the  name  of  the  ves- 

and  Carr,  as  the  Earl  of  Somerset.  sel  in  whiehthe  settlers  of  Plymouth, 

*  El  Dora'  do,  a  fabulous  region  in  Mass..  came  to  America,  in  1620. 


28G  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

6.  I  see  them  now  scantily  supplied  with  provisions  ;  crowded 
almost  to  suffocation  in  their  ill-stored  prison  ;  delayed  by  calms, 
pursuing  a  circuitous  route, — and  now  driven  in  fury  before  tho 
raging  tempest,  on  the  high  and  giddy  waves.  The  awful  voice 
of  the  storm  howls  through  the  rigging.  The  laboring  masts 
seem  straining  from  their  base  ;  the  dismal  sounds  of  the  pumps 
is  heard  ;  the  ship  leaps,  as  it  were,  madly,  from  billow  to  billow ; 
the  ocean  breaks,  and  settles  with  ingulfing  floods  over  the  float- 
ing deck,  and  beats,  with  deadening,  shivering  weight,  against 
the  staggered  vessel. 

7.  I  see  them,  escaped  from  these  perils,  pursuing  their  all  but 
desperate  undertaking,  and  landed  at  last,  after  a  five  months' 
passage,  on  the  ice-clad  rocks  of  Plymouth, — weak  and  weary 
from  the  voyage,  poorly  armed,  scantily  provisioned,  depending 
on  the  charity  of  their  shipmaster  for  a  draught  of  beer  on 
board,  drinking  nothing  but  water  on  shore, — without  shelter, 
without  means,— surrounded  by  hostile  tribes. 

8.  Shut  now  the  volume  of  history,  and  tell  me,  on  any  prin- 
ciple of  human  probability,  what  shall  be  the  fate  of  this  handful 
of  adventurers.  Tell  me,  man  of  military  science,  in  how  many 
months  were  they  all  swept  off  by  the  thirty  savage  tribes,  enu- 
merated within  the  early  limits  of  New  England?  Tell  me, 
politician,  how  long  did  this  shadow  of  a  colony,  on  which  your 
conventions  and  treaties  had  not  smiled,  languish  on  the  distant 
coast  ?  Student  of  history,  compare  for  me  the  baffled  projects, 
the  deserted  settlements,  the  abandoned  adventures  of  other 
times,  and  find  the  parallel  of  this. 

9.  Was  it  the  winter's  storm,  beating  upon  the  houseless  heads 
of  women  and  children  ;  was  it  hard  labor  and  spare  meals  ; 
was  it  disease  ;  was  it  the  tomahawk  ;  was  it  the  deep  malady 
of  a  blighted  hope,  a  ruined  enterprise,  and  a  broken  heart, 
aching  in  its  last  moments  at  the  recollection  of  the  loved  and 
left  beyond  the  sea  ; — was  it  some,  or  all  of  these  united,  that 
hurried  this  forsaken  company  to  their  melancholy  fate  ?  And 
is  it  possible  that  neither  of  these  causes,  that  not  all  combined, 
were  able  to  blast  this  bud  of  hope  ?  Is  it  possible,  that,  from  a 
beginning  so  feeble,  so  frail,  so  worthy,  not  so  much  of  admiration 
as  of  pity,  there  has  gone  forth  a  progress  so  steady,  a  growth 
so  wonderful,  an  expansion  so  ample,  a  reality  so  important,  a 
promise,  yet  to  be  fulfilled,  so  glorious  ?         Edward  Everett. 


THE    GRAVES    OF    THE    PATRIOTS.  287 

Edward  Everett,  an  American  statesman,  orator,  and  man  of  letters,  wa| 
born  in  Dorchester,  near  Boston,  Mass.,  April  11th,  1794.  He  entered  Harvard 
College  in  1807,  where  he  graduated  with  the  highest  honors  at  the  carlj 
age  of  seventeen.  He  studied  theology;  was  settled  as  pastor  over  the  Brattle 
Street  Church  in  Boston;  and  in  1815,  elected  Greek  Professor  at  Harvard 
College.  He  now  visited  Europe,  where  he  devoted  four  years  to  study  and 
travel,  and  made  the  acquaintance  of  Scott,  Byron,  Campbell,  Jeffrey,  and  other 
noted  persons.  He  was  subsequently  a  member  of  both  houses  of  Congn  •—, 
Governor  of  Massachusetts,  Embassador  to  England,  President  of  Harvard 
College,  and  Secretary  of  State.  As  a  scholar,  rhetorician,  and  orator,  he  has 
had  but  few  equals.  Through  his  individual  efforts,  chiefly  as  lecturer,  the  sum 
of  about  $90,000  was  realized  and  paid  over  to  the  Mount  Vernon  fund,  and 
sundry  charitable  associations.     Ho  died  in  January,  1805. 

VII. 

83.  THE  GRAVES  OF  THE  PATRIOTS. 

HERE  rest  the  great  and  good.     Here  they  repose 
After  their  generous  toil.     A  sacred  band, 
They  take  their  sleep  together,  while  the  year 
Comes  with  its  early  flowers  to  deck  their  graves, 
And  gathers  them  again,  as  Winter  frowns. 
Theirs  is  no  vulgar  sepulchre — green  sods 
Are  all  their  monument,  and  yet  it  tells 
A  nobler  history  than  pillared  piles, 
Or  the  eternal  pyramids. 

2.  They  need 
No  statue  nor  inscription  to  reveal 

Their  greatness.     It  is  round  them  ;  and  the  joy 
With  which  their  children  tread  the  hallowed  ground 
That  holds  their  venerated  bones,  the  peace 
That  smiles  on  all  they  fought  for,  and  the  wealth 
That  clothes  the  land  they  rescued — these,  though  mute 
As  feeling  ever  is  when  deepest — these 
Are  monuments  more  lasting  than  the  fanes 
Reared  to  the  kings  and  demigods  of  old. 

3.  Touch  not  the  ancient  elms,  that  bend  their  shade 
Over  their  lowly  graves  ;  beneath  their  boughs 
There  is  a  solemn  darkness  even  at  noon, 
Suited  to  such  as  visit  at  the  shrine 

Of  serious  Liberty.     No  factious  voice 
Called  them  unto  the  field  of  generous  fame, 
But  the  pure  consecrated  love  of  home. 
No  deeper  feeling  sways  us,  when  it  wakes 


290  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Have  forged  thy  chain  ;  yet  while  he  deems  thee  bound. 

The  links  are  shivered,  and  the  prison  walls 

Fall  outward  :  terribly  thou  springest  forth, 

As  springs  the  flame  above  a  burning  pile, 

And  shoutest  to  the  nations,  who  return 

Thy  shoutings,  while  the  pale  oppressor  flies. 

4.  Thy  birth-right  was  not  given  by  human  hands  : 
Thou  wert  twin-bom  with  man.     In  pleasant  fields, 
"While  yet  our  race  was  few,  thou  sat'st  with  him, 
To  tend  the  quiet  flock  and  watch  the  stars, 
And  teach  the  reed  to  utter  simple  airs. 
Thou  by  his  side,  amid  the  tangled  wood, 
Didst  war  upon  the  panther  and  the  wolf, 
His  only  foes  ;  and  thou  with  him  didst  draw 
The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  Deluge.     Tyranny  himself, 
The  enemy,  although  of  reverend  look, 
Hoary  with  many  years,  and  far  obeyed, 
Is  later  born  than  thou  ;  and  as  he  meets 
The  grave  defiance  of  thine  elder  eye, 
The  usurper  trembles  in  his  fastnesses. 

5.  Thou  shalt  wax  stronger  with  the  lapse  of  years, 
But  he  shall  fade  into  a  feebler  age  ; 
Feebler,  yet  subtler  :  he  shall  weave  his  snares, 
And  spring  them  on  thy  careless  steps,  and  clap 
His  withered  hands,  and  from  their  ambush  call 
His  hordes  to  fall  upon  thee.     He  shall  send 
Quaint  maskers,  forms  of  fair  and  gallant  mien, 
To  catch  thy  gaze,  and  uttering  graceful  words 
To  charm  thy  ear  ;  while  his  sly  imps,  by  stealth, 
Twine  round  thee  threads  of  steel,  light  thread  on  thread, 
That  grow  to  fetters  ;  or  bind  down  thy  arms 

With  chains  concealed  in  chaplets. 

6.  Oh!  not  yet 
Mayst  thou  unbrace  thy  corslet,  nor  lay  by 
Thy  sword,  nor  yet,  O  Freedom !  close  thy  lids 
In  slumber  ;  for  thine  enemy  never  sleeps. 
And  thou  must  watch  and  combat,  till  the  day 

Of  the  new  Earth  and  Heaven.     But  wouldst  thou  rest 
Awhile  from  tumult  and  the  frauds  of  men, 


LIBERTY.  291 

These  old  and  friendly  solitudes  invite 

Thy  visit.     They,  while  yet  the  forest  trees 

AVere  young  upon  the  unviolated  earth, 

And  yet  the  moss-stains  on  tho  rock  were  new, 

Beheld  thy  glorious  childhood,  and  rejoiced.  Bryant. 

IX. 

85.     LIBERTY. 

LIBERTY,  gentlemen,  is  a  solemn  thing — a  welcome,  a  joyous, 
a  glorious  thing,  if  you  please  ;  but  it  is  a  solemn  thing. 
A  free  people  must  be  a  thoughtful  people.  The  subjects  of  a 
despot  may  be  reckless  and  gay  if  they  can.  A  free  peoplo 
must  be  serious  ;  for  it  has  to  do  the  greatest  thing  that  ever 
was  done  in  the  world — to  govern  itself. 

2.  That  hour  in  human  life  is  most  serious,  when  it  passes 
from  parental  control,  into  free  manhood  :  then  must  the  man 
bind  the  righteous  law  upon  himself,  mure  strongly  than  father 
or  mother  ever  bound  it  upon  him.  And  when  a  people  leaves 
the  leading-strings  of  prescriptive  authority,  and  enters  upon 
the  ground  of  freedom,  that  ground  must  be  fenced  with  law  ; 
it  must  be  tilled  with  wisdom  ;  it  must  be  hallowed  with  prayer. 
The  tribunal  of  justice,  the  free  school,  the  holy  church  must  bo 
built  there,  to  intrench,  to  defend,  and  to  keep  the  sacred  heritage. 

3.  Liberty,  I  repeat,  is  a  solemn  tiling.  The  world,  up  to  this 
time,  has  regarded  it  as  a  boon — not  as  a  bond.  And  there  is 
nothing,  I  seriously  believe,  in  the  present  crises  of  human  affairs 
— there  is  no  point  in  the  great  human  welfare,  on  which  men's 
ideas  so  much  need  to  be  cleared  up — to  be  advanced — to  be 
raised  to  a  higher  standard,  as  this  grand  and  terrible  responsi- 
bility of  freedom. 

4.  In  the  universe  there  is  no  trust  so  awful  as  mural  freedom  ; 
and  all  good  civil  freedom  depends  upon  the  use  of  that.  But 
look  at  it.  Around  every  human,  every  rational  being,  is  drawn 
a  circle  ;  the  space  within  is  cleared  from  obstruction,  or,  at 
least,  from  all  coercion  ;  it  is  sacred  to  the  being  himself  who 
stands  there  ;  it  is  secured  and  consecrated  to  his  own  respon- 
sibility. May  I  say  it  ? — God  himself  does  not  penetrate  there 
with  any  absolute,  any  coercive  power !  He  compels  the  winds 
and  waves  to  obey  him  ;  he  compels  animal  instincts  to  obey 


292  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER 

him  ;  but  he  does  not  compel  man  to  obey.  That  sphere  he 
leaves  free  ;  he  brings  influences  to  bear  upon  it ;  but  the  last, 
final,  solemn,  infinite  question  between  right  and  wrong,  he 
leaves  to  man  himself. 

5.  Ah !  instead  of  madly  delighting  in  his  freedom,  I  could 
imagine  a  man  to  protest,  to  complain,  to  tremble  that  such  a 
tremendous  prerogative l  is  accorded  to  him.  But  it  is  accorded 
to  him  ;  and  nothing  but  willing  obedience  can  discharge  that 
solemn  trust ;  nothing  but  a  heroism  greater  than  that  which 
fights  battles,  and  pours  out  its  blood  on  its  country's  altar — the 
heroism  of  self-renunciation a  and  self-control. 

6.  Come  that  liberty !  I  invoke  it  with  all  the  ardor  of  the 
poets  and  orators  of  freedom  ;  with  Spenser 3  and  Milton,  with 
Hampden4  and  Sydney,5  with  Bienzi6  and  Dante,7  with  Hamil- 
ton 8  and  Washington,  I  invoke  it.     Come  that  liberty !    come 

1  Pre  rog'  a  tive,  an  exclusive  or  death  with  iron  resolution.    His  very 

peculiar  privilege  or  right.  able  "Discourses  concerning  Govern- 

a  Renunciation,  fnun^shi  a' shun),  ment  "  was  a  posthumous  work. 

'Edmund     Spenser,     excepting  6  Rienzi,    (reen'ze),    the    orator, 

Shakspeare,  the  greatest  poet  of  his  famous  in   Roman   history  for  his 

time,  author  of  the  "  Faerie  Queene,"  assumption  of  dictatorship  in  that 

was  born  in  London  about  1553,  where  capital,  born  about  1310,  was  distin 

he  died  on  the  16th  of  January,  1599.  guished  by  his  love  of  the  ancient 

*  John  Hampden,  celebrated  for  republican  institutions  of  Rome,  and 
his  resistance  to  the  imposition  of  by  his  profound  knowledge  of  anti- 
taxes  without  authority  of  parlia-  quity.  He  was  massacred  in  1354. 
ment,  and  to  the  royal  prerogative  7  Dante,  (dan'  te),  the  poet,  author 
of  Charles  I.,  commander  of  a  troop  of  the  "  Divina  Commedia,"  was 
in  the  parliamentary  army,  was  born  born  at  Florence  in  1265,  and  died 
at  London  in  1594,  and  was  mortally  at  Ravenna,  in  1321. 

wounded  in  an  affair  with   Prince        8  Alexander     Hamilton,     distin- 

Rupert  on  18th  of  June,  1643.  guished asa  statesman,  jurist,  soldier, 

*  Algernon  Sydney,  second  son  of  and  financier,  one  of  the  ablest  offi- 
Robert,  Earl  of  Leicester,  England,  cersinthe  American  Revolution,  was 
was  born  about  the  year  1621.  In  born  in  the  West  Indies,  in  1757.  In 
early  youth  ho  fought  in  the  ranks  1782  he  was  a  member  of  Congress 
of  the  parliamentary  forces.  A  thor-  fromNew York.  In  1789,  Washington, 
ough  republican,  he  was  inimical  to  the  first  President,  placed  him  at  the 
all  monarchy,  and  opposed  to  the  as-  head  of  the  Treasury.  On  the  death 
cendancy  of  Cromwell.  Ho  was  of  Washington,  in  1799,  his  rank 
abroad  at  the  Restoration,  and  was  made  him  commander-in-chief  of  the 
permitted  to  return  to  England  in  American  army.  He  was  challenged 
1677.  For  his  supposed  connection  by  Aaron  Burr,  and  a  duel  was  the 
with  the  Ryehouse  Plot,  he  was  be-  consequence,  in  which  he  was  mortal- 
headed  December  7th,  1683.    He  met  1  v  wounded,  at  the  aire  of  fort  v  seven. 


THE    INQUIRY.  293 

none  that  docs  not  lead  to  that !  Come  the  liberty  that  shall 
strike  off  every  chain,  not  only  of  iron,  and  iron-law,  but  of 
painful  constriction,  of  fear,  of  enslaving  passion,  of  mad  self- 
will  ;  the  liberty  of  perfect  truth  and  love,  of  holy  faith  and  glad 
obedience!  Orville  Dewey. 


SECTION   XVI. 
I. 

86.     THE    INQUIRY. 

TELL  me,  ye  winged  winds,  that  round  my  pathway  roar, 
Do  ye  not  know  some  spot  where  mortals  weep  no  more  ? 
Some  lone  and  pleasant  dell,  some  valley  in  the  west, 
Where,  free  from  toil  and  pain,  the  weary  soul  may  rest  ? 
The  loud  wind  dwindled  to  a  whisper  low, 
And  sighed  for  pity  as  it  answered — "  No." 

2.  Tell  me,  thou  mighty  deep,  whose  billows  round  me  play, 
Know'st  thou  some  favored  spot,  some  island  far  away, 
Where  weary  man  may  find  the  bliss  for  which  he  sighs, — 
Where  sorrow  never  lives,  and  friendship  never  dies  ? 

The  loud  waves,  rolling  in  perpetual  flow, 
Stopped  for  a  while,  and  sighed  to  answer — "No." 

3.  And  thou,  serenest  moon,  that,  with  such  lovely  face, 
Dost  look  upon  the  earth,  asleep  in  night's  embrace  ; 
Tell  me,  in  all  thy  round,  hast  thou  not  seen  some  spot, 
Where  miserable  man  might  find  a  happier  lot  ? 

Behind  a  cloud  the  moon  withdrew  in  woe, 
And  a  voice,  sweet,  but  sad,  responded — "  No." 

4.  Tell  me,  my  secret  soul ; — oh !  tell  me,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Is  there  no  resting-place  from  sorrow,  sin,  and  death  ? — 
Is  there  no  happy  spot,  where  mortals  may  be  blessed, 
Where  grief  may  find  a  balm,  and  weariness  a  rest  ? 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Love,  best  boons  to  mortals  given, 
Waved   their  bright   wings,    and   whispered — "Yes,   rx 
Heaven  l"  Chaeles  Mackat. 


294:  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

n. 

87.     THE    DEATH    OF    HAMILTON. 

A  SHORT  time  since,  and  he,  who  is  the  occasion  of  oar 
sorrows,  was  the  ornament  of  his  country.  He  stood  on 
an  eminence,  and  glory  covered  him.  From  that  eminence  ho 
has  fallen  :  suddenly,  forever  fallen.  His  intercourse  with  the 
living  world  is  now  ended  ;  and  those  who  would  hereafter  find 
him,  must  seek  him  in  the  grave.  There,  cold  and  lifeless,  is 
the  heart  which  just  now  was  the  seat  of  friendship  ;  there,  dim 
and  sightless,  is  the  eye,  whose  radiant  and  enlivening  orb 
beamed  with  intelligence  ;  and  there,  closed  forever,  are  those 
lips,  on  whose  persuasive  accents  we  have  so  often,  and  so  lately 
hung  with  transport ! 

2.  From  the  darkness  which  rests  upon  his  tomb  there  pro- 
ceeds, methinks,  a  light,  in  which  it  is  clearly  seen,  that  those 
gaudy  objects  which  men  pursue  are  only  phantoms.  In  this 
light  how  dimly  shines  the  splendor  of  victory — how  humble 
appears  the  majesty  of  grandeur!  The  bubble,  which  seemed 
to  have  so  much  solidity,  has  burst ;  and  we  again  see,  that  all 
below  the  sun  is  vanity. 

3.  True,  the  funeral  eulogy  has  been  pronounced,  the  sad  and 
solemn  procession  has  moved,  the  badge  of  mourning  has  al- 
ready been  decreed,  and  presently  the  sculptured  marble  will 
lift  up  its  front,  proud  to  perpetuate  the  name  of  Hamilton,  and 
rehearse  to  the  passing  traveler  his  virtues  (just  tributes  of  re- 
spect, and  to  the  living  useful) ;  but  to  him,  moldering  in  his 
narrow  and  humble  habitation,  what  are  they?  How  vain! 
how  unavailing ! 

4.  Approach,  and  behold,  while  I  lift  from  his  sepulcher  its 
covering!  Ye  admirers  of  his  greatness!  ye  emulous  of  his 
talents  and  his  fame !  approach  and  behold  him  now.  How 
pale !  how  silent !  No  martial  bands  admire  the  adroitness  of 
his  movements  ;  no  fascinating  throng  weep,  and  melt,  and 
tremble  at  his  eloquence !  Amazing  change !  a  shroud !  a  cof- 
fin !  a  narrow,  subterraneous  cabin ! — this  is  all  that  now  re- 
mains of  Hamilton !  And  is  this  all  that  remains  of  Hamilton  ? 
During  a  life  so  transitory,  what  lasting  monument,  then,  can 
our  fondest  hopes  erect ! 


PASS    ON,    RELENTLESS    WORLD.  295 

5.  My  brethren,  we  stand  on  the  borders  of  an  awful  gulf, 
which  is  swallowing  up  all  thing.s  human.  And  is  there,  amidst 
this  universal  wreck,  nothing  stable,  nothing  abiding,  nothing 
immortal,  on  which  poor,  frail,  dying  man  can  fasten  ?  Ask  the 
hero,  ask  the  statesman,  whose  wisdom  you  have  been  accus- 
tomed to  revere,  and  he  will  tell  you.  He  will  tell  you,  did  I 
say  ?  He  has  already  told  you,  from  his  death-bed  ;  and  his 
illumined  spirit  still  whispers  from  the  heavens,  with  well-known 
eloquence,  the  solemn  admonition  :  "  Mortals  hastening  to  the 
tomb,  and  once  the  companions  of  my  pilgrimage,  take  warning 
and  avoid  my  errors  ;  cultivate  the  virtues  I  have  recommended ; 
choose  the  Saviour  I  have  chosen  :  live  disinterestedly  ;  live 
for  immortality  ;  and  would  you  rescue  any  thing  from  final 
dissolution,  lay  it  up  in  God."  Nott. 

Elipiiai.et  Nott,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  was  born  in  Ashford,  Connecticut,  In  1773,  and 
passed  his  youth  as  a  teacher,  thereby  acquiring  the  means  of  educating  himself. 
He  received  the  degree  of  Master  of  Arts  from  Brown  University  in  1795.  He 
soon  after  established  himself  as  clergyman  and  principal  of  an  academy  at 
Cherry  Valley,  in  the  State  of  New  York.  From  1798  to  his  election  as  president 
of  Union  College,  in  1S03,  he  was  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Church,  at  Albany, 
where  he  delivered  a  discourse  "On  the  Death  of  Hamilton,'1  from  which  the 
above  extract  is  taken.  In  1S54,  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  Dr.  Nott'a  presidency 
was  celebrated  at  Union  College,  at  the  Commencement  in  July.  Very  many 
graduates  assembled,  and  addresses  were  delivered  by  Dr.  "Way  land  of  Brown 
University,  and  Judge  Campbell  of  New  York.  Dr.  Nott  also  spoke  with  hif 
old  eloquence.  His  "  Addresses  to  Young  Men,"  M  Temperance  Addresses,"  and 
a  collection  of  "  Sermons,"  are  his  only  published  volumes.    He  died  in  1S66. 

in. 

88.     PASS    OX,    RELENTLESS    WORLD. 

SWIFTER  and  swifter,  day  by  day, 
Down  Time's  unquiet  current  hurled, 
Thou  passest  on  thy  restless  way, 

Tumultuous  and  unstable  world ! 
Thou  passest  on !     Time  hath  not  seen 

Delay  upon  thy  hurried  path  ; 
And  prayers  and  tears  alike  have  been 
In  vain  to  stay  thy  course  of  wrath ! 

2.  Thou  passest  on,  and  with  thee  go 

The  loves  of  youth,  the  cares  of  age  ; 
And  smiles  and  tears,  and  joy  and  woe, 
Are  on  thy  history's  troubled  page ! 


296  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

There,  every  day,  like  yesterday, 

Writes  hopes  that  end  in  mockery  ; 
But  who  shall  tear  the  veil  away 

Before  the  abyss  of  things  to  be  ? 

3.  Thou  passest  on,  and  at  thy  side, 

Even  as  a  shade,  Oblivion  treads, 
And  6'er  the  dreams  of  human  prido 

His  misty  shroud  forever  spreads  ; 
Where  all  thine  iron  hand  hath  traced 

Upon  that  gloomy  scroll  to-day, 
With  records  ages  since  effaced, — 

Like  them  shall  live,  like  them  decay. 

4.  Thou  passest  on,  with  thee  the  vain, 

Who  sport  upon  thy  flaunting  blaze, 
Pride,  framed  of  dust  and  folly's  train, 

Who  court  thy  love,  and  run  thy  ways  : 
But  thou  and  I, — and  be  it  so, — 

Press  onward  to  eternity  ; 
Yet  not  together  let  us  go 

To  that  deep-voiced  but  shoreless  sea. 

6.  Thou  hast  thy  friends, — I  would  have  mine  ; 

Thou  hast  thy  thoughts, — leave  me  my  own  ; 
I  kneel  not  at  thy  gilded  shrine, 

I  bow  not  at  thy  slavish  throne  : 
I  see  them  pass  without  a  sigh, — 

They  wake  no  swelling  raptures  now, 
The  fierce  delights  that  fire  thine  eye, 

The  triumphs  of  thy  haughty  brow. 

6.  Pass  on,  relentless  world !     I  grieve 

No  more  for  all  that  thou  hast  riven  ; 
Pass  on,  in  God's  name, — only  leave 

The  things  thou  never  yet  hast  given — 
A  heart  at  ease,  a  mind  at  home, 

Affections  fixed  above  thy  sway, 
Faith  set  upon  a  world  to  come, 

And  patience  through  life's  little  day.  Luxt. 

George  Lunt,  born  at  Nc\vbur3'port,  Massachusetts,  was  graduated  at  Har- 
vard in  1834;  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1S81 ;  practiced  for  a  while  at  his  native 
place,  and  since  1848  has  pursued  the  profession  in  Boston.    He  published  his 


THE    WORLD    FOR    SALE.  297 

first  volume  of  poems  in  1839,  followed  in  1843  by  "  The  Age  of  Gold  and  other 
Poems,"  and  in  1854  by  "Lyric  Poems,  Sonnets,  and  Miscellanies."  His  novel 
of  New  England  life,  entitled  "Eastford,  or  Household  Sketches,  by  Westlcy 
Brooke,"  was  also  published  in  1854. 


rv. 

89.     THE    WORLD    FOR    SALE. 

THE  Wokld  for  sale  ! — Hang  out  the  sign  ; 
Call  every  traveler  here  to  mc  : 
Who'll  buy  this  brave  estate  of  mine, 

And  set  me  from  earth's  bondage  free  ? — 
"lis  going ! — yes,  I  mean  to  fling 

The  bauble  from  my  soul  away  ; 
I'll  sell  it,  whatsoe'er  it  bring  ; — 
The  World  at  Auction  here  to-day ! 

2.  It  is  a  glorious  thing  to  see, — 

Ah,  it  has  cheated  me  so  sore ! 
It  is  not  what  it  seems  to  be  : 

For  sale  !     It  shall  be  mine  no  more. 
Come,  turn  it  o'er  and  view  it  well ; — 

I  would  not  have  you  purchase  dear  : 
'Tis  going  !  going  ! — I  must  sell ! 

Who  bids  ?— Who'll  buy  the  splendid  Tear? 

3.  He-re's  Wealth  in  glittering  heaps  of  gold  ; — 

Who  bids? — But  let  me  tell  you  fair, 
A  baser  lot  was  never  sold  ; — 

Who'll  buy  the  heavy  heaps  of  care  ? 
And  here,  spread  out  in  broad  domain, 

A  goodly  landscape  all  may  trace  ; 
Hall,  cottage,  tree,  field,  hill,  and  plain  ; — 

Who'll  buy  himself  a  burial-place ! 

4.  Here's  Love,  the  dreamy  potent  spell 

That  beauty  flings  around  the  heart ; 
I  know  its  power,  alas !  too  well ; — 

'Tis  going, — Love  and  I  must  part! 
Must  part  ? — What  can  I  more  with  Love! — 

All  over  the  enchanter's  reign  ; 
Who'll  buy  the  plumeless,  dying  dove, — 

An  hour  of  bliss, — an  ago  of  pain 


298  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5.  And  Friendship, — rarest  gem  of  earth, — 

(Who  e'er  hath  found  the  jewel  his  ?) 
Frail,  fickle,  false,  and  little  worth, — 

Who  bids  for  Friendship — as  it  is ! 
'Tis  going  !  going  ! — Hear  the  call : 

Once,  twice,  and  thrice  ! — 'tis  very  low ! 
'Twas  once  my  hope,  my  stay,  my  all, — 

But  now  the  broken  staff  must  go ! 

6.  Fame!  hold  the  brilliant  meteor  high  ; 

How  dazzling  every  gilded  name ! 
Ye  millions,  now's  the  time  to  buy ! 

How  much  for  Fame  ? — How  much  for  Fame  ? 
Hear  how  it  thunders ! — Would  you  stand 

On  high  Olympus,1  far  renowned, — 
Now  purchase,  and  a  world  command ! — 

And  be  with  a  world's  curses  crowned ! 

7.  Sweet  star  of  Hope  !  with  ray  to  shine 

In  every  sad  foreboding  breast, 
Save  this  desponding  one  of  mine, — 

Who  bids  for  man's  last  friend  and  best  ? 
Ah !  were  not  mine  a  bankrupt  life, 

This  treasure  should  my  soul  sustain  ; 
But  Hope  and  I  are  now  at  strife, 

Nor  ever  may  unite  again. 

8.  And  Song  !     For  sale  my  tuneless  lute  ; 

Sweet  solace,  mine  no  more  to  hold  ; 
The  chords  that  charmed  my  soul  are  mute, 

I  can  not  wake  the  notes  of  old  ! 
Or  e'en  were  mine  a  wizard  shell, 

Could  chain  a  world  in  rapture  high  ; 
Yet  now  a  sad  farewell ! — farewell ! 

Must  on  its  last  faint  echoes  die. 

9.  Ambition,  fashion,  show,  and  pride, — 

I  part  from  all  forever  now  ; 
Grief,  in  an  overwhelming  tide, 

Has  taught  my  haughty  heart  to  bow. 

1  O  lym'  pus,  a  mountain  range  mcr  and  other  poets  as  the  throne 
of  Thessaly,  on  the  horder  of  Mac-  of  tho  gods,  is  estimated  to  be  9,745 
cdoiiia.     Its  summit,  famed  by  lie-     feet  high. 


GLOBY.  299 

Poor  heart !  distracted,  all,  so  long, — 

And  still  its  aching  throb  to  bear  ; 
How  broken,  that  was  once  so  strong  I 

How  heavy,  once  so  free  from  care ! 

10.  No  more  for  mo  life's  fitful  dream  ; — 

Bright  vision,  vanishing  away  ! 
My  bark  requires  a  deeper  stream  ; 

My  sinking  soul  a  surer  stay. 
By  Death,  stern  sheriff!  all  bereft, 

I  weep,  yet  humbly  kiss  the  rod  ; 
The  best  of  all  I  still  have  left, — 

My  Faith,  my  Bible,  and  my  God.  Hott. 

Rev.  IlALrn  Hoyt  is  a  clergyman  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal  Church  in  New 
York.  lie  is  a  native  of  the  city.  After  passing  several  years  as  a  teacher,  and 
a  "writer  for  the  gazettes,  he  studied  theology,  and  took  orders  in  the  church  in 
1S42.  lie  may  have  written  much,  but  he  has  acknowledged  little.  "  The  Chant 
of  Life  and  other  Poems,"  appeared  in  1844,  and  the  second  portion  of  the  same, 
in  1S45.  These  works  arc  principally  occupied  with  passages  of  personal  senti- 
ment and  reflection.  His  pieces,  entitled  "Snow,"  "The  World  for  Sale,"  "New," 
and  "  Old,"  have  attracted  considerable  attention,  and  become  popular.  A  sim- 
ple, natural  current  of  feeling  runs  through  them :  the  versification  grows  out 
of  the  subject,  and  the  whole  clings  to  us  as  something  written  from  the  heart 
of  the  author.  A  new  edition  of  his  "  Sketches  of  Life  and  Landscape  n  waa 
published  in  1S53. 

V. 

90.     GLORY. 

THE  crumbling  tombstone  and  the  gorgeous  mausole'um,1 
the  sculptured  marble,  and  the  venerable  cathedral,  all  bear 
witness  to  the  instinctive  desire  within  us  to  be  remembered  by 
coming  generations.  But  how  short-lived  is  the  immortality 
which  the  works  of  our  hands  can  confer !  The  noblest  monu- 
ments of  art  that  the  world  has  ever  seen  are  covered  with  the 
soil  of  twenty  centuries.  The  works  of  the  age  of  Pericles3  lie 
at  the  foot  of  the  Acrop'olis3  in  indiscriminate  ruin.     The  plow- 


1  MaiT  so  la'  urn,   a    magnificent  gree  of  perfection  that  has  not  since 

tomb  or  monument.  been  equaled,  and  poetry  reached  the 

1  Per'  i  cles,  the  greatest  of  Athcn-  highest  excellence.    He  died  B.  c.  429. 

ian  statesmen,  was  born  about  495  B.  3  A  crbp'  o  lis,  the  citadel  of  Ath- 

c.     During  his  administration  archi-  ens,  built  on  a  rock,  and  accessible 

lecture  and  sculpture  attained  a  de-  only  on  one  side. 


800  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER 

share  turns  up  the  marble  which  the  hand  of  Phidias '  had  chis- 
eled into  beauty,  and  the  Mussulman  has  folded  his  flock  beneath 
the  falling  columns  of  the  temple  of  Minerva.3 

2.  But  even  the  works  of  our  hands  too  frequently  survive  the 
memory  of  those  who  have  created  them.  And  were  it  other- 
wise, could  we  thus  carry  down  to  distant  ages  the  recollection 
of  our  existence,  it  were  surely  childish  to  waste  the  energies  of 
an  immortal  spirit  in  the  effort  to  make  it  known  to  other  times, 
that  a  being  whose  name  was  written  with  certain  letters  of  the 
alphabet,  once  lived,  and  nourished,  and  died.  Neither  sculp- 
tured marble,  nor  stately  column,  can  reveal  to  other  ages  the 
lineaments  of  the  spirit ;  and  these  alone  can  embalm  our  mem- 
ory in  the  hearts  of  a  grateful  posterity. 

3.  As  the  stranger  stands  beneath  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's,3  or 
treads,  with  religious  awe,  the  silent  aisles  of  Westminster  Ab- 
bey,4 the  sentiment,  which  is  breathed  from  every  object  around 
him,  is,  the  utter  emptiness  of  sublunary 5  glory.  The  fine  arts, 
obedient  to  private  affection  or  public  gratitude,  have  hero  em- 
bodied, in  every  form,  the  finest  conceptions  of  which  their  age 
was  capable.  Each  one  of  these  monuments  has  been  watered 
by  the  tears  of  the  widow,  the  orphan,  or  the  patriot. 

4.  But  generations  have  passed  away,  and  mourners  and 
mourned  have  sunk  together  into  forgetfulness.  The  aged  crone, 
or  the  smooth-tongued  beadle,  as  now  he  hurries  you  through 
aisles  and  chapel,  utters,  with  measured  cadence  and  unmeaning 
tone,  for  the  thousandth  time,  the  name  and  lineage  of  the  once 
honored  dead  ;  and  then  gladly  dismisses  you,  to  repeat  again 
his  well-conned  lesson  to  another  group  of  idle  passers-by. 

5.  Such,  in  its  most  august  form,  is  all  the  immortality  that 
matter  can  confer.     It  is  by  what  we  ourselves  have  done,  and 

1  Phid'  i  as,  a  Greek  sculptor,  and     Christopher  Wren  in  1718. 

the  most  celebrated   of    antiquity,  «  Westminster  Abbey,  a  church 

was  born  at  Athens  about  490  b.  c.,  in  Westminster,  built  by  Edward  the 

and  died  432  b.  c.  Confessor,  in  1050.     Henry  III.  made 

2  Mi  ner/  va,  called  Athena  by  the  additions  and  rebuilt  a  part  between 
Greeks,  was  usually  regarded,  in  1220  and  1269.  Many  of  the  most 
heathen  my  thology,  as  the  goddess  of  distinguished  statesmen,  warriors, 
wisdom,  knowledge,  and  art.  scholars,  and  artists  of  England  He 

'  St.  Paul's,  a  celebrated  church  in    buried  here. 
London,  of  very  great  size.     It  was        6  SuV  lunary,  being  under  the 
begun  about  1675,  and  finished  by    moon  ;  terrestrial ;  earthly. 


PASSING    AWAY.  301 

not  by  what  others  have  done  for  us,  that  wo  shall  be  remem- 
bered by  after  ages.  It  is  by  thought  that  has  aroused  my  in- 
tellect from  its  slumbers,  which  has  "  given  luster  to  virtue,  and 
dignity  to  truth,"  or  by  those  examples  which  have  inflamed  my 
soul  with  the  love  of  goodness,  and  not  by  means  of  sculptured 
marble,  that  I  hold  communion  with  Shakspeare  and  Milton, 
with  Johnson  and  Burke,  with  Howard l  and  "Wilberforce.3 

Dr.  Waylaxd. 

Dr.  Francis  "Wayland  was  born  in  the  city  of  New  York,  March  11th,  1706, 
and  in  the  seventeenth  year  of  his  age  he  was  graduated  at  Union  College,  in 
Schenectady.  After  studying  medicine  for  three  years,  and  his  admission  to 
practice,  he  entered  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Andovcr,  which  he  left  at  the 
end  of  a  year,  to  become  a  tutor  in  Union  College.  In  1831  he  became  pastor  of 
the  First  Baptist  Church  in  Boston,  where  he  continued  five  years.  He  was 
elected  to  the  presidency  of  Brown  University,  Providence,  in  1828.  His  lir-t 
publication  was  a  sermon  on  the  Moral  Dignity  of  the  Missionary  Enterprise, 
delivered  in  Boston,  in  1823,  which  had  an  extraordinary  success,  passing  through 
many  editions,  in  England  and  this  country.  Very  many  of  his  discourses,  since 
that  period,  have  been  equally  popular.  He  has  also  written  numerous  articles 
in  the  journals  and  quarterly  reviews.  His  works  on  Moral  Science,  Tblitical 
Economy,  and  Intellectual  PldlosopJuj,  have  deservedly  met  with  great  success. 
His  very  interesting  "  Life  of  the  Missionary,  Dr.  Judson,"  appeared  in  1S53. 
This  able  thinker  is  equally  popular  as  an  orator  and  a  writer.  Clear,  exact,  and 
searching  in  his  analysis,  he  penetrates  to  the  very  heart  of  his  subject,  and 
enunciates  its  ultimate  principles  in  a  stvle  of  transparent  clearness,  and  clas- 
sical purity  and  elegance,  and  not  unfrequently  rises  to  strains  of  impassioned 
eloquence.    He  died  September  30th,  1SG5. 

VI. 

01.     PASSING    AWAY. 

~VTT*AS  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 

V  V      That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell, 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach  so  mellow  and  clear, 
"When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  moon  and  the  fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 

1  John   Howard,   the    celebrated  ons  of  Europe.     On  a  second   tour 

Christian   philanthropist,  was  born  of  inquiry,  he  was  seized  with  a  ma- 

at  Hackney,  London,  in  1720.    With  lignant  fever,  of  which  he  died,  at 

a  view  to  the  amelioration  of  pris-  Kherson,  Russia,  Jan.  20th,  1700. 

oners,  in  1777  he  visited  all  the  pris-  2  William  Wilberforce,  a  distin- 

ons  in  the  United  Kingdom  ;  and  in  guished  British  statesman,  author. 

1778,  and  the  four  following  years,  and   Christian    philanthropist,   was 

he  inspected  the  principal  public  pris-  born  in  17o9.and  died  July  28th, 1833. 


<J02  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 

And  he  his  notes  as  silvery  quite, 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar, 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  ? — 

Hark !  the  notes  on  my  ear  that  play, 

Are  set  to  words  :  as  they  float,  they  say, 
"  Passing '  away !  passing  away !" 

2   But,  no  ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell, 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear  : 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell 

Striking  the  hours  that  fell  on  my  ear, 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream  :  yet  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  Time  ; 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung, 
And  a  plump  little  girl  for  a  pendulum,  swung  ; 
(As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 
That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  canary  bird  swing  ;) 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet  ,* 
And  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 
"  Passing  away !  passing  away !" 

3.  Oh,  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time  as  they  moved  round  slow  1 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  ot  gold, 

Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo !  she  had  changed  ; — in  a  few  short  hours, 
Her  bouquet  had  become  a  garland  of  flowers, 
That  she  held  in  her  outstretched  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fullness  of  grace  and  womanly  pride, 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride  ; 

Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 
"  Passing  away !  passing  away !" 

4.  "While  I  gazed  on  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 

Of  thought,  or  care,  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made, 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 


1  Passing,  (p&s'  ing),  Note  3,  p.  22.  "  Bouquet,  (bo  k&')- 


PASSING    AWAY.  303 

The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush  ; 

And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels, 
That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her, 

Was  a  little  dimmed — as  when  evening  steals 
Upon  noon's  hot  face  : — yet  one  couldn't  but  love  her ; 
For  she  looked  like  a  mother  whoso  first  babe  lay 
Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day  ; 
And  she  seemed  in  the  same  silver  tone  to  say, 
"  Passing  away !  passing  away !" 

5.  "While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there  came ! 

Her  eye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek  was  wan  ; 
Stooping  and  staffed  was  her  withered  frame, 

Yet  just  as  busily  swung  she  on  : 
The  garland  beneafh  her  had  fallen  to  dust  ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept, 
Grew  crook'd  and  tarnished,  but  on  they  kept ; 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shriveled  lips  of  the  toothless  crone, 
(Let  me  never  forget,  to  my  dying  day, 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  that  lay) — 

"  Passing  away  !    passing  away  1"  Pierpo^t. 

Rev.  John  PiERrbNT,  author  of  the  "Airs  of  Palestine,"  was  born  at  Litch- 
field,  Connecticut,  April  0th,  1785.  He  entered  Yale  College  when  fifteen  years 
old,  graduated  in  1804,  and  passed  the  four  subsequent  years  as  a  private  tutor 
in  the  family  of  Col.  Win.  Allston,  of  South  Carolina.  He  then  returned  home, 
studied  law  in  the  celebrated  school  of  his  native  town,  and  was  admitted  to 
practice  in  1813.  About  the  same  period  he  delivered  his  poem  entitled  "The 
Portrait,"  before  the  Washington  Benevolent  Society,  of  Xewburyport,  to  which 
place  he  had  removed.  Impaired  health,  and  the  unsettled  state  of  affairs  pro- 
duced by  the  war,  induced  him  soon  after  to  relinquish  his  profession.  He  be- 
came a  merchant,  first  in  Boston,  and  afterward  in  Baltimore.  The  "Airs  of 
Palestine,"  which  he  published  in  Baltimore,  in  1818,  was  well  received,  and 
twice  reprinted  in  the  course  of  the  following  year.  In  1810  he  was  ordained 
minister  of  the  Hollis  Street  Unitarian  Church,  in  Boston.  He  passed  a  portion 
of  the  years  1835-6  in  Europe,  and  in  1840  published  a  choice  edition  of  his 
poems.  At  different  periods,  he  also  published  several  very  able  discourses. 
In  1851  he  delivered  a  poem  of  considerable  length  at  the  centennial  celebration 
in  Litchfield.  He  has  written  in  almost  every  meter,  and  many  of  his  poems 
are  remarkably  elevated,  spirited,  and  melodious.  He  died  suddenly  at 
Medford,  Mass.,  August  26th,  1800. 


304:  NATIONAL   FIFTn    READER. 

SECTION    XVII. 
I. 

92.     THE    STOLEN    RIFLE. 

MACKENZIE  offered  to  cross  the  river  and  demand  the  rifle, 
if  any  one  would  accompany  him.  It  was  a  hair-brained 
project,  for  these  villages  were  noted  for  the  ruffian  character  of 
their  inhabitants  ;  yet  two  volunteers  promptly  stepped  forward, 
Alfred  Seton,  the  clerk,  and  Joe  de  la  Pierre,  the  cook.  The 
tri'o  soon  reached  the  opposite  side  of  the  river.  On  landing, 
they  freshly  primed  their  rifles  and  pistols.  A  path  winding  for 
about  a  hundred  yards  among  rocks  and  crags,  led  to  the  village. 

2.  No  notice  seemed  to  be  taken  of  their  approach.  Not  a 
solitary  being — man,  woman,  or  child — greeted  them.  The  very 
dogs,  those  noisy  pests  of  an  Indian  town,  kept  silence.  On 
entering  the  village  a  boy  made  his  appearance,  and  pointed  to 
a  house  of  larger  dimensions  than  the  rest.  They  had  to  stoop 
to  enter  it  :  as  soon  as  they  had  passed  the  threshold,  the  nar- 
row passage  behind  them  was  filled  by  a  sudden  rush  of  Indians, 
who  had  before  kept  out  of  sight. 

3.  Mackenzie  and  his  companions  found  themselves  in  a  rude 
chamber  of  about  twenty-five  feet  long,  and  twenty  wide.  A 
bright  fire  was  blazing  at  one  end,  near  which  sat  the  chief, 
about  sixty  years  old.  A  large  number  of  Indians,  wrapped  in 
buffalo  robes,  were  squatted  in  rows,  three  deep,  forming  a  semi- 
circle round  three  sides  of  the  room.  A  single  glance  sufficed 
to  show  them  the  grim  and  dangerous  assembly  into  which  they 
had  intruded,  and  that  all  retreat  was  cut  off  by  the  mass  which 
blocked  up  the  entrance. 

4.  The  chief  pointed  to  the  vacant  side  of  the  room  opposito 
to  the  door,  and  motioned  for  them  to  take  their  seats.  They 
complied.  A  dead  pause  ensued.  The  grim  warriors  around 
sat  like  statues  ;  each  muffled  in  his  robe,  with  his  fierce  eyes 
bent  on  the  intruders.  The  latter  felt  they  were  in  a  perilous 
predicament. 

5.  "  Keep  your  eyes  on  the  chief  while  I  am  addressing  him," 
said  Mackenzie  to  his  companions.  "  Should  he  give  any  sign 
to  his  band,  shoot  him,  and  make  for  the  door."    Mackenzie 


THE    TOMAHAWK    SUBMISSIVE    TO    ELOQUENCE.      305 

advanced,  and  offered  the  pipe  of  peace  to  the  chief,  but  it  was 
refused.  He  then  made  a  regular  speech,  explaining  the  object 
of  their  visit,  and  proposing  to  give,  in  exchange  for  the  rifle, 
two  blankets,  an  ax,  some  beads,  and  tobacco. 

6.  When  he  had  done,  the  chief  rose,  began  to  address  him 
in  a  low  voice,  but  soon  became  loud  and  violent,  and  ended  by 
working  himself  up  into  a  furious  passion.  He  upbraided  the 
white  men  for  their  sordid  conduct,  in  passing  and  repassing 
through  their  neighborhood  without  giving  them  a  blanket  or 
any  other  article  of  goods,  merely  because  they  had  no  furs  to 
barter  in  exchange  ;  and  he  alluded,  with  menaces  of  vengeance, 
to  the  death  of  the  Indians,  killed  by  the  whites  at  the  skirmish 
at  the  Falls. 

7.  Matters  were  verging  to  a  crisis.  It  was  evident  the  sur- 
rounding savages  were  only  waiting  a  signal  froni  the  chief  to 
spring  upon  their  prey.  Mackenzie  and  his  companions  had 
gradually  risen  on  their  feet  during  the  speech,  and  had  brought 
their  rifles  to  a  horizontal  position,  the  barrels  resting  in  their 
left  hands  :  the  muzzle  of  Mackenzie's  piece  was  within  three 
feet  of  the  speaker's  heart. 

8.  They  cocked  their  rifles  ;  the  click  of  the  locks  for  a  mo- 
ment suffused  the  dark  cheek  of  the  savage,  and  there  was  a 
pause.  They  coolly,  but  promptly  advanced  to  the  door  ;  the 
Indians  fell  back  in  awe,  and  suffered  them  to  pass.  The  sun 
was  just  setting  as  they  emerged  from  this  dangerous  den.  They 
took  the  precaution  to  keep  along  the  tops  of  the  rocks  as  much 
as  possible,  on  their  way  back  to  the  canoe,  and  reached  their 
camp  in  safety,  congratulating  themselves  on  their  escape,  and 
feeling  no  desire  to  make  a  second  visit  to  the  grim  warriors  of 
the  ^Yish-ram."  Washington  Irving. 

n. 

93.    THE   TOMAHAWK   SUBMISSIVE    TO   ELOQUENCE. 

riHWENTY  tomahawks  were  raised  ;  twenty  arrows  drawn  to 
JL  their  head.  Yet  stood  Harold  stern  and  collected,  at  bay 
— parleying  only  with  his  Btoord.  He  waved  his  arm.  Smitten 
with  a  sense  of  their  cow'ardice,  perhaps,  or  by  his  great  dig- 
nity, more  awful  for  his  very  youth,  their  weapons  dropped,  and 
their  countenances  were  uplifted  upon  him,  less  in  hatred  than 
in  wonder. 


306  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  The  old  men  gathered  about  him  :  he  leaned  upon  his  saber. 
Their  eyes  shone  with  admiration  :  such  heroic  deportment,  in 
one  so  young — a  boy !  so  intrepid !  so  prompt !  so  graceful !  so 
eloquent,  too ! — for,  knowing  the  effect  of  eloquence,  and  feeling 
the  loftiness  of  his  own  nature,  the  innocence  of  his  own  heart, 
the  character  of  the  Indians  for  hospitality,  and  their  veneration 
for  his  blood,  Harold  dealt  out  the  thunder  of  his  strength  to 
these  rude  barbarians  of  the  wilderness,  till  they,  young  and  old, 
gathering  nearer  and  nearer  in  their  devotion,  threw  down  their 
weapons  at  his  feet,  and  formed  a  rampart  of  locked  arms  and 
hearts  about  him,  through  which  his  eloquence  thrilled  and 
lightened  like  electricity.  The  old  greeted  him  with  a  lofty  step,  as 
the  patriarch  welcomes  his  boy  from  the  triumph  of  far-off  battle ; 
and  the  young  clave  to  him  and  clung  to  him,  and  shouted  in  their 
self-abandonment,  like  brothers  round  a  conquering  brother. 

3.  "  Warriors !"  he  said,  "  Brethren !" — (their  tomahawks  were 

brandished  simulta'neously,  at  the  sound  of  his  terrible  voice,  as 

if  preparing  for  the  onset).     His  tones  grew  deeper,  and  less 

threatening.     "Brothers!  let  us  talk  together  of  Logan!1     Ye 

who  have  known  him,  ye  aged  men !  bear  ye  testimony  to  the 

deeds  of  his  strength.     Who  was  like  him  ?     Who  could  resist 

him?     Who  may  abide  the  hurricane  in  its  volley?     Who  may 

withstand  the  winds  that  uproot  the  great  trees  of  the  mountain  ? 

Let  him  be  the  foe  of  Logan.     Thrice  in  one  day  hath  he  given 

battle.     Thrice  in  one  day  hath  he  come  back  victorious.    Who 

may  bear  up  against  the  strong  man — the  man  of  war  ?    Let 

them  that  are  young,  hear  me.     Let  them  follow  the  course  of 

Logan.     He  goes  in  clouds  and  whirlwind — in  the  fire  and  in 

the  smoke.     Let  them  follow  him.     Warriors !   Logan  was  the 

father  of  Harold !"     They  fell  back  in  astonishment,  but  they 

believed  him  ;  for  Harold's  word  was  unquestioned,  undoubted 

evidence,  to  them  that  knew  him.  Neal. 

JonN  Neal  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  about  1794.  He  was  brought  up  as 
a  shop-boy,  and  in  1815  became  a  wholesale  dry-goods  dealer  in  Baltimore,  with 
John  Pierpont,  the  poet.  The  concern  failed,  and  Neal  commenced  the  study 
of  law,  and  with  it  the  profession  of  literature,  by  writiog  a  series  of  critical  es- 
says on  the  works  of  Byron  for  "The  Portico,"  a  monthly  magazine.  In  1818 
he  published  "Keep  Cool,"  a  novel,  and  in  the  following  year  "The  Battle  of 

1  Logan,  an   Indian  chief  of  the  when  lie  took  an  Indian's  revenge. 

Cayugas,  murdered  in  1781.    lie  was  A  speech  of  his,  addressed  to  Lord 

remarkable  for  his  attachment  to  the  Dunmore,  is  an  eloquent  rebuke  of 

whites  until  cruelly  treated  by  them,  the  conduct  of  the  whites. 


THE  BARON'S  LAST  BANQUET.  307 

Niagara,  Goldau  the  Maniac  Tlarpcr,  and  other  Poem?,"  and  "Otho,"  a  tragedy, 
lie  wrote  a  large  portion  of  Allen's  "History  of  the  American  Revolution," 
which  appeared  in  183L  Four  novels,  "Logan,"  "Randolph,"  "Errata,"  and 
" Seventy-six,"  some  of  which  were  republished  in  London,  followed  in  quick 
succession.  Meanwhile  the  author  had  studied  law;  been  admitted,  and  was 
practicing  as  energetically  as  he  was  writing.  Near  the  close  of  1823  he  went 
abroad;  and,  soon  after  his  arrival  in  London,  became  a  contributor  to  several 
periodicals,  making  his  first  appearance  in  "  Blackwood's  Magazine,"  in  "  Sketch 
cf  the  Five  American  Presidents  and  the  Five  Candidates  for  the  Presidency,"  a 
paper  which  was  widely  republished.  After  passing  four  years  in  Great  Britain 
and  on  the  Continent,  in  which  time  appeared  his  "  Brother  Jonathan,"  a  novel, 
he  came  back  to  his  native  city  of  Portland,  where  he  now  resides.  He  has 
since  published  "  Rachel  Duer,"  "Authorship,"  "The  Down  Eastcrs,"  "  Ruth 
Elder,"  "One  Word  More,"  1S54,  and  "True  Womanhood,  a  Talc,"  18.59;  and 
contributed  largely  to  periodicals.  His  novels  arc  original,  and  written  from 
the  impulses  of  his  heart,  containing  numerous  passages  marked  by  dramatic 
power,  and  brilliancy  of  sentiment  and  cxprcs>ion ;  but  most  of  them  having 
been  produced  rapidly,  and  without  unity,  aim,  or  continuous  interest,  are  now 
undergoing  revision.  Mr.  Ncal's  poems  have  the  unquestionable  stamp  of  genius. 
His  imagination  is  marked  by  a  degree  of  sensibility  and  energy  rarely  surpassed. 

m. 

91     THE    BARON'S    LAST    BANQUET. 

1. 

O'ER  a  low  coucli  the  setting  sun  had  thrown  its  latest  ray, 
"Where,  in  his  last  strong  agony,  a  dying  warrior  lay,— 
The  stern  old  Baron  Rudiger,  whose  frame  had  ne'er  been  bent 
By  wasting  pain,  till  time  and  toil  its  iron  strength  had  sj^ent. 

2. 

"  They  come  around  me  here,  and  say  my  days  of  life  are  o'er, — 
That  I  shall  mount  my  noble  steed  and  lead  my  band  no  more  ; 
They  come,  and,  to  my  beard,  they  dare  to  tell  me  now  that  I, 
Their  own  liege  lord  aud  master  born,  that  I — ha !  ha ! — must  die. 

3. 

And  what  is  death  ?    I've  dared  him  oft,  before  the  Painim ]  spenr ; 
Think  ye  he's  entered  at  my  gate — has  come  to  seek  me  here  ? 
I've  met  him,  faced  him,  scorned  him,  when  the  fight  was  rag- 
ing hot ; — 
I'll  try  his  might,  I'll  brave  his  power ! — defy,  and  fear  him  not ! 

4. 
"Ho!  sound  the  tocsin1  from  my  tower,  and  fire  the  cul'verin,* 
Bid  each  retainer  arm  with  speed  ;  call  every  vassal  in. 

»  FaP  nim,  pagan  ;  infidel.  s  CuT  ver  in,  a  long,  slender  can- 

*  T6c'  sin,  a  bell  for  giving  alarm,    non,  to  carry  a  ball  a  great  distance* 


308  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Up  with  my  banner  on  the  wall, — the  banquet-board  prepare, — 
Throw  wide  the  portal  of  my  hall,  and  bring  my  armor  there  J'1 

5. 

A  hundred  hands  were  busy  then  :  the  banquet  forth  was  spread, 
And  rung  the  heavy  oaken  floor  with  many  a  martial  tread  ; 
While  from  the  rich,  dark  tracery,  along  the  vaulted  wall, 
Lights  gleamed  on  harness,  plume,  and  spear,  o'er  the  proud 

old  Gothic  hall. 

6. 
Fast  hurrying  through  the  outer  gate,  the  mailed  retainers  poured, 
On  through  the  portal's  frowning  arch,  and  thronged  around 

the  board  ; 
While  at  its  head,  within  his  dark,  carved,  oaken  chair  of  state, 
Armed  cap-a-pie,1  stern  Eudiger,  with  girded  falchion2  sate. 

7. 
"  Fill  every  beaker  up,  my  men ! — pour  forth  the  cheering  wine ! 
There's  life  and  strength  in  every  drop, — thanksgiving  to  the  vine ! 
Are  ye  all  there,  my  vassals  true  ? — mine  eyes  are  waxing  dim  : 
Fill  round,  my  tried  and  fearless  ones,  each  goblet  to  the  brim ! 

8. 

"  Ye're  there,  but  yet  I  see  you  not ! — draw  forth  each  trusty  sieord, 
And  let  me  hear  your  faithful  steel  clash  once  around  my  board ! 
I  hear  it  faintly  :  Louder  yet !    What  clogs  my  heavy  breath  ? 
Up,  all! — and  shout  for  Eudiger,  'Defiance  unto  Death!'" 

9. 
Bowl  rang  to  bowl,  steel  clanged  to  steel,  and  rose  a  deafening  cry, 
That  made  the  torches  flare  around,  and  shook  the  flags  on  high  •. 
"  Ho !  cravens !  do  ye  fear  him  ?   Slaves !  traitors !  have  ye  flown  ? 
Ho !  cowards,  have  ye  left  me  to  meet  him  here  alone  ? 

10. 
"  But  I  defy  him ! — let  him  come !"    Down  rang  the  massy  cup, 
WTiile  from  its  sheath  the  ready  blade  came  flashing  half-way  up; 
And,  with  the  black  and  heavy  plumes  scarce  trembling  on  his 

head, 
There,  in  his  dark,  carved,  oaken  chair,  old  Eudiger  sat — dead ! 

Greene. 

1  CapNapie',  from  head  to  foot;  shorter  than  the   ordinary  military 

all  over.  sword,  and  less  heavy,  much  used 

3  Falchion,    (fir  chun),   a    broad  from   the   eighth   to    the    fifteenth 

sword,  with  a  slightly  curved  point,  century. 


BERNARDO    DEL    CARPIO.  309 

.  Mr.  Albert  G.  Greene  was  born  at  Providence,  Rhode  Inland,  February  10th, 
1803.  lie  was  a  graduate  at  Brown  University  in  1820,  practiced  law  in  his  nativo 
city  until  1834,  since  which  time  he  has  held  office  under  the  city  government. 
One  of  his  earliest  metrical  compositions  was  the  popular  ballad  of  "  Old  Grimes." 
His  poems,  which  were  principally  written  for  periodicals,  have  never  been  pub- 
lished in  a  collected  form.  One  of  his  longest  serious  ballads,  entitled  "  Canon- 
chet,"  is  published  in  Updike's  "History  of  the  Narraghansett  Church." 

IV. 
95.     BERNARDO    DEL    CARPIO.1 

1. 

rTIHE  warrior  bowed  his  crested  head,  and  tamed  his  heart  of  fire, 

_A_    And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-imprisoned  sire ; 

"  I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress-keys,  I  bring  my  captive  train, 

I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord ! — Oh !  break  my  father's 

chain !" 

2. 
"  Rise,  rise !  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ransomed  man  this  day  : 
Mount  thy  good  horse  ;  and  thou  and  I  will  meet  him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on  his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger's  foamy  speed. 

3. 
And  lo !  from  far,  as  on  they  pressed,  there  came  a  glittering  band, 
With  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader  in  the  land  : 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste  !  for  there,  in  very  truth,  is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearned  so  long  to  see." 

4. 

His  dark  eye  flashed,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his  cheek's  hue 
came  and  went : 

He  reached  that  gray-haired  chieftain's  side,  and  there,  dismount- 
ing, bent ; 

A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand  he  took — 

What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  his  fiery  spirit  shook  ? 

1  Bernardo  del  Carpio,  a  eclcbra-  release.     Alphonso  therefore  offered 

ted  Spanish  champion,  after  many  in-  Bernardo  the  person  of  his  father  in 

effectual  efforts  to  procure  the  release  exchange  for  the  castle  of  Carpio. 

of  his  father,  Count  Saldana,  whom  Bernardo  immediately  gave  up  his 

King  Alphonso,  of  Asturias,  had  long  stronghold  with  all  his  captives  ;  and 

retainedin  prison, at  last  tookuparms  rode  forth  with  the  king  to  meet  his 

in  despair.     He  maintained   so  de-  father,  who  he  was  assured  was  on 

structive  a  war  that  the  king's  sub-  his  way  from  prison.    The  remainder 

jects  united  in  demanding  Saldanas  of  the  story  is  related  in  the  ballad. 


310  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

* 

5. 

That  hand  was  cold,  a  frozen  thing, — it  dropped  from  his  like  lead ! 
He  looked  up  to  the  face  above, — the  face  was  of  the  dead! 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow, — the  brow  was  fixed  and 

white  : 
He  met,  at  last,  his  father's  eyes, — but  in  them  was  no  sight ! 

6. 
Up  from  the  ground  he  sprang  and  gazed  ; — but  who  could  paint 

that  gaze  ? 
They  hushed  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  its  horror  and  amaze  : — 
They  might  have  chained  him,  as  before  that  stony  form  he  stood ; 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and  from  his  lip  the  blood. 

7. 

"  Father  !"  at  length  he  murmured  low,  and  wept  like  childhood 

then  : 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of  warlike  men ! 
He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his  young  renown, — 
He  flung  his  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust  sat  down. 

8. 
Then  covering  with  his  steel-gloved  hands  his  darkly  mournful 

brow, 
"No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the  sword  for,  now  ; 
My  king  is  false — my  hope  betrayed !  My  father — Oh !  the  worth, 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness,  are  passed  away  from  earth ! 

9. 

"I  thoughtto  stand  wherebanners  waved,  my  sire,  beside  thee,yet! 
I  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's  free  soil  had  met ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit,  then  ; — for  thee  my  fields 

were  won  ; 
And  thou  hast  perished  in  thy  chains,  asthoughthouhadst  noson!" 

10. 
Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he  seized  the  mon- 
arch's rein, 
Amidst  the  pale  and  wildered  looks  of  all  the  courtier  train  ; 
And,  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastering  grasp, the  rearing  war-horse  led, 
Ajid  sternly  set  them  face  to  face — the  king  before  the  dead  : 

11. 

"  Came  I  not  forth,  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's  hand  to  kiss  ? 
Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king !  and  tell  me,  what  is  this  ? 


MARIUS    IN    PRISON.  3H 

The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought, — give  answer,  where 

are  they  ? 
If  thou  wouldst  dear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life  through  this 

cold  clay ! 

12. 

"Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light ; — be  still!  keep  down  thine  ire! — 

\Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak, — this  earth  is  not  my  sire : 

7Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was 

shed ! — 
Thou  canst  not  ?  and  a  king! — his  dust  be  mountains  on  thy  head!" 

13. 
He  loosed  the  steed, — his  slack  hand  fell; — upon  the  silent  face 
He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look,  then  turned  from  that  sad 

place  : 
His  hope  was  crushed,  his  after  fate  untold  in  martial  strain  : — 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more,  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 

Mrs.  II  em  ax  s. 
Mrs.  Hemaks  (Felicia  Dorothea  Browne),  the  daughter  of  a  Liverpool  mer- 
chant, was  born  in  that  town  on  the  25th  of  September,  1793.  Her  father,  soon 
after,  experiencing  some  reverses,  removed  with  his  family  to  Wales,  and  there 
the  young  poetess  imbibed  that  love  of  nature  which  is  displayed  in  all  her 
works.  She  wrote  verses  from  her  childhood,  and  published  a  poetical  volume 
in  her  fourteenth  year.  Her  second  volume,  "  The  Domestic  Affections,"  which 
appeared  in  1812,  established  her  poetical  reputation.  In  the  same  year  she  mar- 
ried Captain  Ilemans,  who,  after  some  years,  went  to  reside  on  the  Continent, 
his  wife  remaining  at  home  with  her  five  sons.  She  became  more  and  more  de- 
voted to  study  and  composition.  In  1S19  she  won  a  prize  of  £50,  offered  by  some 
patriotic  Scots  for  the  best  poem  on  Sir  William  Wallace,  and  in  June,  1821,  she 
obtained  the  prize  awarded  by  the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  for  the  best  poem 
on  the  subject  of  Dartmoor.  She  succeeded  well  in  narrative  and  dramatic 
poetry,  though  the  character  of  her  genius  was  decidedly  lyrical  and  reflective. 
Her  numerous  poems  arc  admirable  for  purity  of  sentiment  and  gentle  pathos; 
and  her  personal  character  was  amiable,  modest,  and  exemplary.  After  several 
changes  of  residence,  she  died  in  Dublin,  ou  the  ICth  of  May,  1S35. 

V. 

96.     MARIUS    m    PRISON. 

THE  peculiar  sublimity  of  the  Roman  mind  does  not  express 
itself,  nor  is  it  at  all  to  be  sought,  in  their  poetry.  Poetry, 
according  to  the  Roman  ideal  of  it,  was  not  an  adequate  organ 
for  the  grander  movements  of  the  national  mind.  Roman  sub- 
limity must  be  looked  for  in  Roman  acts,  and  in  Roman  sayings. 
Where,  again,  y\ill  you  find  a  more  adequate  expression  of  the 


312  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Roman  majesty,  than  in  the  saying  of  Trajan1 — Imperalorem 
oportere  stantem  mori — that  Caesar3  ought  to  die  standing? — a 
speech  of  impsratorial3  grandeur.  Implying  that  he,  who  was 
"the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world,"  and,  in  regard  to  all 
other  nations,  the  representative  of  his  own,  should  express  its 
characteristic  virtue  in  his  farewell  act — should  die  in  procinctu,* 
and  should  meet  the  last  enemy  as  the  first,  with  a  Roman 
countenance  and  in  a  soldier's  attitude.  If  this  had  an  imper- 
atorial,  what  follows  had  a  consular  majesty,  and  is  almost  the 
grandest  story  upon  record. 

2.  Mariiis,5  the  man  who  rose  to  be  seven  times  consul,  was  in 
a  dungeon,  and  a  slave  was  sent  in  with  commission  to  put  him 
to  death.  These  were  the  persons — the  two  extremities  of  ex- 
alted and  forlorn  humanity,  its  vanward  and  its  rearward  man,  a 
Roman  consul  and  an  abject  slave.  But  their  natural  relations 
to  each  other  were,  by  the  caprice  of  fortune,  monstrously  in- 
verted :  the  consul  was  in  chains  ;  the  slave  was  for  a  moment 
the  arbiter  of  his  fate.  By  what  spells,  what  magic,  did  Marius 
reinstate  himself  in  his  natural  prerogatives  ?  By  what  marvels 
drawn  from  heaven  or  from  earth,  did  he,  in  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  again  invest  himself  with  the  purple,  and  place  between 
himself  and  his  assassin  a  host  of  shadowy  lictors  ? 

3.  By  the  mere  blank  supremacy  of  great  minds  over  weak 
ones.  He  fascinated  the  slave,  as  a  rattlesnake  does  a  bird. 
Standing  "like  Teneriffe,"  he  smote  him  with  his  eye,  and  said, 
"  Tunc,  homo,  audes  occidere  C.  Marium  ?" — Dost  thou,  fellow, 

1  Tra'jan,  one  of  the  most  illustri-  and  died  by  the  hands  of  assassins, 
ous  emperors  of  Rome,  was  born  near  in  the  Senate  House,  in  the  loth  of 
Seville,  in  Spain,  in  the  year  53.    By  March,  in  the  fifty-sixth  year  of  his 
his  great  victories  over  tho  Dacians,  age.     As  a  warrior,  a  statesman,  and 
Germans,  and  Parthians,  he  fixed  sc-  a  man  of  letters,  he  was  one  of  tho 
curely  the  boundaries  of  the  Roman  most  remarkable  men  of  any  age. 
empire  on  tho  banks  of  the  Rhine  ■  Im  perx  a  to'  ri  al,  of,  or  relating 
and  the  Tigris.     His  internal  admin-  to  the  office  of  Imperator,  or  Com- 
istration  was  equally  glorious,  his  mander-in-chief,  a  title  of  honor  con- 
reign  being  celebrated  for  its  great  ferred  on  Roman  generals  for  great 
clemency,   and    rigid    discipline   of  military  exploits ;  commanding, 
justice,   and    for    its    humanity   to  *  In  procinctu,  about  to  join  bat- 
Christians.     Ho  died  at   Selinus,  a  tic;  ready  for  action, 
town  in  Cilicia,  August,  117.  6Ma'rius,   one   of  the  greatest 

3  Caius  Julius  Caesar,  Dictator  of  generals  and  dictators  of  the  Roman 

Rome,  was  born  July  12  th,  n.  c.  100,  republic,  born  about  157, died  r$.  c.  CO. 


THE    ANNOYEB.  $13 

presumo  to  kill  Caius  Marius  ?  Whereat,  the  rep'tile,  quaking 
under  the  voice,  nor  daring  to  affront  the  consular  eye,  sank 
gently  to  the  ground,  turned  round  upon  his  hands  and  feet, 
and,  crawling  out  of  the  prison  like  any  other  vermin,  left  Marius 
standing  in  solitude  as  steadfast  and  immovable  as  the  capitol. 

De  Quincet. 


SECTION    XVIII. 
L 

97.     THE    ANNOYER. 

LOVE  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 
And  every  shape  of  earth, 
And  comes,  unbidden,  everywhere, 
Like  thought's  mysterious  birth. 
The  moonlit  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 

Are  written  with  Love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 
Like  song,  in  the  time  of  birds. 

2.  He  peeps  into  the  warrior's  heart 

From  the  tip  of  a  stooping  plume, 
And  the  serried '  spears,  and  the  many  men, 

May  not  deny  him  room. 
He'll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night, 

And  be  busy  in  his  dream, 
And  he'll  float  to  his  eye  in  the  morning  light, 

Like  a  fay  on  a  silver  beam. 

3.  He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  gun, 

And  rides  on  the  echo  back, 
And  sighs  in  his  car  like  a  stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track. 
The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen*  of  the  river, 

The  cloud,  and  the  open  sky, — 
Ho  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver, 

Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 

■  SSr'  rifcd,  close  ;  crowded  ;  compact.  a  Shsen,  brightness. 

14 


314  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

4  The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat. 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea, 
For  Love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a  spell  of  thought  has  he  : 
He  heaves  the  wave  like  a  bosom  sweet, 

And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 
Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line, 

And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

5.  He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book, 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
In  every  home  of  human  thought, 

Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh.  Willis. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis,  one  of  the  most  voluminous  and  successful  of 
American  writers,  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  January  20th,  1807.     His  father, 
a  distinguished  journalist,  removed  to  Boston  when  he  was  six  years  of  age.    He 
was  prepared  for  college  at  the  Latin  School  of  Boston  and  at  the  Phillips  Acad- 
emy at  Andover.    He  graduated  with  high  honors  at  Yale  in  1827.    While  in 
college,  he  distinguished  himself  by  a  series  of  sacred  poems,  and  gained  the 
prize  of  fifty  dollars  for  the  best  poem,  offered  by  Lockwood,  the  publisher  of 
"  The  Album."    After  his  graduation  he  edited  "  The  Legendary,"  a  series  of 
volumes  of  tales,  and  then  established  the  "  American  Monthly  Magazine,"  which, 
after  two  years  and  a  half,  was  merged  in  the  "  New  York  Mirror,"  and  the  liter- 
ary fraternity  of  N.  P.  Willis  and  George  P.  Morris  began.     Immediately  after 
the  partnership  was  formed,  he  set  sail  for  a  tour  in  Europe,  palatable  and 
piquant  reports  of  which  appeared  in  the  "  Mirror,"  entitled  "Pencilings  by  the 
Way."    This  first  and  extended  residence  abroad  led  our  traveler  through  all  the 
capitals  of  Europe,  and  even  to  "  the  poetic  altars  of  the  Orient."    In  1835,  after 
residing  two  years  in  London,  and  contributing  to  the  "New  Monthly  Maga- 
zine" talcs  and  sketches,  republished  under  the  title  of  "  Inklings  of  Adventure," 
he  married  Mary  Leighton  Stacy,  the  daughter  of  a  distinguished  officer  who 
had  won  high  honors  at  Waterloo,  and  was  then  Commissary-general  in  com- 
mand of  the  arsenal,  Woolwich.    In  1837,  he  returned  to  his  native  land,  and 
established  himself  at  "  Glenmary,"  in  Central  New  York,  near  the  village  of 
Owego.    The  portrait  of  this  happy  home  and  the  landscape  around,  is  drawn 
in  "  Letters  from  under  a  Bridge."    In  1839,  he  became  one  of  the  editors  of 
14  The  Corsair,"  a  literary  gazette,  and  made  a  short  trip  to  England.    On  his 
return  home,  "The  Corsair"  having  been  discontinued,  he  revived,  with  his  for- 
mer partner,  Gen.  Morris,  the  "Mirror."    Upon  the  death  of  his  wife,  in  1844, 
he  again  visited  Europe  for  the  improvement  of  his  health.     Soon  after,  the 
"  Mirror"  having  passed  into  other  hands,  the  partners  established  "  The  Home 
Journal."    In  October,  1846,  he  married  Cornelia,  only  daughter  of  the  Hon. 
Joseph  Grinnell,  of  Massachusetts,  since  which  time  he  has  resided  at  "Idle- 
wild,"  a  romantic  place,  which  he  has  cultivated  and  onibelllshed,  near  Newburg. 


THE    PALM    AND    THE    PINE.  315 

on  the  Hudson.  His  poems  have  recently  been  published  in  an  elegant  octavo 
volume,  richly  illustrated,  and  a  uniform  collection  of  his  prose  writings,  in 
twelve  volumes,  of  some  live  hundred  pages  each,  has  also  come  from  the  press. 
Mr,  Willis  is  equally  happy  as  a  writer  of  prose  and  verse.  With  a  felicitous 
Style,  a  warm  and  exuberant  fancy,  and  a  ready  and  sparkling  wit,  he  wins  the 
admiration  of  readers  of  the  most  refined  sentiment  and  the  daintiest  fancy,  and 
at  the  same  time  commands  the  full  sympathy  of  the  masses. 

II. 

98.     THE    PALM    AND    THE    PINE. 

WHEN  Peter  led  the  First  Cmsade, 
A  Norseman  wooed  an  Ar'ab  inaicL 
He  loved  her  lithe  and  palmy  grace, 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  her  face  : 
She  loved  his  cheeks,  so  ruddy  fair, 
His  sunny  eves  and  yellow  hair. 

2.  He  called  :  she  left  her  father's  tent ; 
She  followed  wheresoeer  he  went. 
She  left  the  palms  of  Palestine 

To  sit  beneath  the  Norland  pine. 
She  sang  the  musky  Orient  strains 
Where  Winter  swept  tho  snowy  plains. 

3.  Their  natures  met  like  Night  and  Morn 
"What  time  the  morning-star  is  born. 
The  child  that  from  their  meeting  grew 
Hung,  like  that  star,  between  the  two. 
The  glossy  night  his  mother  shed 
From  her  long  hair  was  on  his  head  : 
But  in  its  shade  thev  saw  ariso 

The  morning  of  his  father's  eyes. 

4.  Beneath  the  Orient's  tawny  stain 
Wandered  the  Norseman's  crimson  vein  : 
Beneath  the  Northern  force  was  seen 
The  Ar'ab  sense,  alert  and  keen. 

His  were  the  Viking's  '  sinewy  hands, 
The  arching  foot  of  Eastern  lands. 

5.  And  in  his  soul  conflicting  strove 
Northern  indifference,  Southern  love  : 

1  VY  king,  one  of  the  pirate  chiefs  from  among  the  Northmen,  who  plui> 
dered  the  coasts  of  Europe  in  the  eighth  and  ninth. centuries,       .     . 


316  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

The  chastity  of  temperate  blood, 
Impetuous  passion's  fiery  flood  ; 
The  settled  faith  that  nothing  shakes, 
The  jealousy  a  breath  awakes  ; 
The  planning  Reason's  sober  gaze, 
And  fancy's  meteoric  blaze. 

6.  And  stronger,  as  he  grew  to  man, 
The  contradicting  natures  ran, — 
As  minified  streams  from  Etna  flow, 
One  born  of  fire,  and  one  of  snow. 
And  one  impelled,  and  one  withheld, 
And  one  obeyed,  and  one  rebelled. 
One  gave  him  force,  the  other  fire  ; 
This  self-control,  and  that  desire. 
One  filled  his  heart  with  fierce  unrest ; 
With  peace  serene  the  other  blessed. 

7.  He  knew  the  depth  and  knew  the  height, 
The  bounds  of  darkness  and  of  light  ; 
And  who  these  far  extremes  has  seen 
Must  needs  know  all  that  lies  between. 

8.  So,  with  untaught,  instinctive  art, 
He  read  the  inyriad-natured  heart. 
He  met  the  men  of  many  a  land  ; 
They  gave  their  souls  into  his  hand  ; 
And  none  of  them  was  long  unknown  : 
The  hardest  lesson  was  his  own. 

9.  But  how  he  lived,  and  where,  and  when, 
It  matters  not  to  other  men  ; 

For,  as  a  fountain  disappears, 
To  gush  again  in  later  years, 
So  hidden  blood  may  find  the  day, 
When  centuries  have  rolled  away  ; 
And  fresher  lives  betray  at  last 
The  lineage  of  a  far-off  Past. 

10.  That  nature,  mixed  of  sun  and  snow, 

Repeats  its  ancient  ebb  and  now  : 

The  children  of  the  Palm  and  Pino 

Renew  their  blended  lives — in  mine.  Taylor. 

Bayard  Taylor,  the  noted  American  traveler  and  poet,  was  born  in  the  vil- 
lage of  Kennett  Square,  Chester  County,  Pennsylvania.  January  11th,  1825.     At 


FAIR   IKES.  317 

the  age  of  seventeen  he  became  an  apprentice  in  a  printing  office  in  Westches- 
ter ;  and  about  the  same  period  wrote  verses,  which  appeurcd  in  the  "  New  York 
Mirror"  and  "  Graham's  Magazine."  He  collected  and  published  a  small  volumo 
of  his  poems  in  1844,  and  visited  Europe  the  same  year.  Having  passed  two 
years  in  Great  Britain,  Switzerland,  Germany,  Italy,  and  France,  he  returned 
home;  published  an  account  of  his  travels  under  the  title  of"  Views  a-Foot ;" 
6Cttled  in  New  York;  and  in  1848,  soon  after  publishing  "Rhymes  of  Travel," 
secured  a  place  as  a  permanent  writer  for  "  The  Tribune. "  He  visited  California 
m  1840,  returned  by  the  way  of  Mexico  in  1850,  and  soon  after  published  his 
"Eldorado,  or  Adventures  in  the  Path  of  Empire."  His  "Book  of  Romances, 
Lyrics,  and  Songs,"  which  appeared  in  1851,  greatly  increased  his  reputation  as 
a  poet.  The  same  year  he  set  out  on  a  protracted  tour  in  the  East,  upon  which 
he  was  absent  two  years  and  four  months)  traveling  more  than  fifty  thousand 
miles.  His  spirited,  graphic,  and  entertaining  history  of  this  journey  is  given 
in  three  works,  entitled  "  A  Journey  to  Central  Africa,  "The  Land  of  the  Sara- 
cen," and  "  India,  Loo  Choo,  and  Japan."  "  Tocms  of  the  Orient •'  appeared  in 
1854,  embracing  only  such  pieces  as  were  written  while  he  was  on  his  passage 
round  the  world.  They  contain  passages  "rich,  sensuous,  and  impetuous,  as 
the  Arab  sings  in  dreams,"  with  others  gentle,  tender,  and  exquisitely  modulated. 
A  complete  edition  of  his  poems  appeared  in  1864;  and  his  latest  novel,  "Keu- 
nett,"  in  18GG. 

III. 
99.     FAIR    INES. 


OSAW  ye  not  fair  Ines  ?  she's  gone  into  the  west, 
To  dazzle  when  the  sun  is  down,  and  rob  the  world  of  rest ; 
She  took  our  daylight  with  her,  the  smiles  that  we  love  best, 
With  morning  blushes  on  her  cheek,  and  pearls  upon  her  breast. 

2. 

0  turn  again,  fair  Ines,  before  the  fall  of  night, 

For  fear  the  moon  should  shine  alone,  and  stars  unrivaled  bright ; 
And  blessed  will  the  lover  be  that  walks  beneath  their  light, 
And  breathes  the  love  against  thy  cheek  I  dare  not  even  write ! 

3. 

Would  I  had  been,  fair  Ines,  that  gallant  cavalier 
"W  ho  rode  so  gayly  by  thy  side,  and  whispered  thee  so  near ! — 
Were  there  no  bonny  dames  at  home,  or  no  true  lovers  hero, 
That  he  should  cross  the  seas  to  win  the  dearest  of  the  dear  ? 

4. 

1  saw  thee,  lovely  Ines,  descend  along  the  shore, 

'With  bands  of  noble  gentlemen,  and  banners  waved  before  ; 
Andgentle  youth  andmaidens  gay,  and  snowyplumesthey  wore) — 
It  would  have  been  a  beauteous  dream — if  it  had  been  no  more ! 


318  •  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5. 


Alas !  alas !  fair  Ines !  slio  went  away  with  song, 
With  music  waiting  on  her  steps,  and  shoutings  of  the  throng  ; 
But  some  were  sad,  and  felt  no  mirth,  but  only  Music's  wrong, 
In  sounds  thatsangFarewell,  Farewell  to  her  you've  loved  so  long. 

6. 

Farewell,  farewell,  fair  Ines !  that  vessel  never  bore 
So  fair  a  lady  on  its  deck,  nor  danced  so  light  before — 
Alas  for  pleasure  on  the  sea,  and  sorrow  on  the  shore  I 
The  smile  that  blest  one  lover's  heart  has  broken  many  more ! 

Thomas  Hood. 

IV. 

100.    LOVE. 

ALL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
"Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

2.  Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
"When  midway  on  the  mound  I  lay, 

Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

3.  The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 

My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 

4.  She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay, 

Amid  the  lingering  light. 

5.  Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope !  my  joy !  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best  whene'er  I  sing 

The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

6.  I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air  ; 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old,  rude  song,  that  suited  well 

That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 


love.  319 

7.  She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 

With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

#.  I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  woro 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

9.  I  told  her  how  he  pined — and  ah ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  winch  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

10.  She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  sho  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 

Too  fondlv  on  her  face ! 

11.  But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 

That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

12.  That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 

In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

13.  There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend, 
This  miserable  knight ! 

14.  And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
Ho  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 

And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death, 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

15.  And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees  ; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 

And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; — 

1G.  And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 


320  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  lie  lay. 

17.  His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 

Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  I 

18.  All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

19.  And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 

And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

20.  She  wept  with  pity  and  delight — 

She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame  ; 
And  like  the  murinur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

21.  Her  bosom  heaved  ;  she  stepped  aside — 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 

She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

22.  She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms  : 
She  pressed  mo  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up, 

And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

23.  'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 

The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

24.  I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride.         Coleridge. 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  one  of  the  most  imaginative  and  original  of 
poets,  the  youngest  son  of  the  vicar  of  St.  Mary  Ottery,  in  Devonshire,  England, 
was  born  at  that  place  in  October,  1773.  Left  an  orphan  in  his  ninth  year,  he 
was  educated  for  seven  years  at  Christ's  Hospital;  and  in  1791  he  became  student 
©f  Jesus  College,  Cambridge.    His  reading  embraced  almost  numberless  books, 


LADY    CLARE.  321 

especially  on  theology,  metaphysics,  and  poetry.  In  1794  -was  published  the 
drama  called  "The  Fall  of  Robespierre,"  of  which  the  first  act  was  Coleridge's, 
and  the  other  two  were  Southey's.  In  17<J5  he  married  Bliss  Frieker,  whose 
sister  soon  afterward  became  Mrs.  Southcy ;  and  In  the  same  year  he  became 
acquainted  with  Wordsworth.  About  the  same  period  he  went  to  reside  in  a 
cottage  at  Stowey,  Somersetshire,  about  two  miles  from  the  residence  of  the 
latter;  and  the  poets  bound  themselves  in  the  closest  friendship.  He  here  wrote 
some  of  his  most  beautiful  poetry— his  "Ode  on  the  Departing  Tear,"  "Tears  in 
Solitude,"  A  France,  an  Ode,"  "  Frost  at  Midnight,"  the  first  part  of  "Christabcl," 
"The  Ancient  Mariner,"  and  his  tragedy  of "  Remorse.'1  In  1793  he  went  to 
Germany  to  complete  his  education,  and  resided  for  fourteen  months  at  Ratz- 
burg  and  Gottingcn.  On  his  return  to  England  he  resided  in  the  lake  district 
near  Southcy  and  Wordsworth,  and  contributed  political  articles  and  poems  for 
the  "  Morning  Post"  newspaper,  which  was  followed,  some  years  later,  by  simi- 
lar employment  in  the  "  Courier."  For  liftecn  months,  in  1S01  and  1S05,  he  was 
secretary  to  Sir  Alexander  Ball,  the  governor  of  Malta.  In  1S10  he  found  a  quiet 
and  friendly  home  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Gillman,  surgeon  of  Iligbgate,  where, 
after  a  residence  of  eighteen  years,  he  died  in  July,  183#.  There  both  mind  and 
body  were  restored  from  the  excitement  and  ill  health  caused  by  the  use  of 
opium,  lirst  taken  in  illness,  and  afterward  used  habitually.  His  numerous  pro- 
ductions in  prose  and  verse,  as  well  as  his  unsurpassed  Table-Talk,  have  since 
been  published,  proving  a  perpetual  delight ;  and,  like  Nature,  furnishing  sub- 
jects of  admiration  and  imitation  for  the  refined  and  observing. 

V. 

101.     LADY    CLARE. 

IT  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow, 
And  the  clouds  are  highest  up  in  air, 
Lord  Ronald  brought  a  lily-white  doe 
To  give  his  cousin,  Lady  Clare. 

2.  I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn  : 

Lovers  long-betrothed  were  they  : 
They  two  shall  wed  the  morrow  morn  ; 
God's  blessing  on  the  day ! 

3.  "  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 

Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair  ; 
Pie  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

■I 

4.  In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 

Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee  ? 
"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare  ; 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

5.  "  0  God  be  thanked !"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair  : 


322  NATIONAL  FIFTH  READER. 

Lord  Eonald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

6.  "  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse  7" 

Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild  ?" 
"  As  God's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth  :  you  are  my  child. 

7.  "  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 
And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

8.  "  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

O  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 
To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 

9.  "  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Konald's 
When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

10.  "  If  I'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  lie  : 
Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 
And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

11.  "  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so  :  but  I  will  know, 
If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

12:  "  Nay  now,  what  faith  ?"  said  Alice  the  nurse ; 
"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 
"  Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

13.  "  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee." 
"  O  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 
"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

14.  "  Yet  here's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so  ; 
And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 
And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 


LADY    CLARE.     -  323 

15.  She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown — 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare  : 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 
AVith  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 

16.  The  lily-white  doe  Lord  Ronald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 
And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

17.  Down  stept  Lord  Ronald  from  his  tower 

"  O  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth ! 
Why  come  you  drcst  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  all  the  earth  ?" 

18.  "  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are  : 
I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 
"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

19.  "  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 

"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  deed. 
Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Ronald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

20.  Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  looked  into  Lord  Ronald's  eyes, 
And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

21.  He — laughed  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn  : 

He  turned  and  kissed  her  where  she  stood : 
"If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  of  blood — 

22.  "  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

"We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 

And  you  shall  still  be — Lady  Clare."  Teknyson. 

Alfred  Tennyson,  poet  laureate  of  England,  the  son  of  a  clergyman,  was 
born  in  Lincolnshire,  in  1810.  He  received  his  university  education  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  His  first  volume  of  poems  was  published  in  1830;  his 
second,  three  years  afterward.  Some  of  his  early  minor  pieces,  as  well  as  selec- 
tions from  "The  Princess,"  are  simple,  true  to  nature,  and  exquisitely  beautiful. 
"In  Memoriam,"  one  of  his  most  characteristic  poems,  is  the  most  important 
contribution  which  has  yet  been  given  to  what  may  strictly  be  entitled  Elegiac 
Poetry.  It  first  appeared  in  ISoO,  nearly  twenty  years  after  the  death  of  young 
Hallam,  the  &on  of  the  celebrated  historian,  to  whom  he  was  bound  by  many 


324:  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

endearing  ties,  and  to  whose  memory  the  work  is  a  tribute.  Careful  study,  and 
reflection  on  the  reader's  own  inmost  being,  are  required  to  fully  reveal  the 
imaginative  power,  the  wisdom,  and  the  spiritual  beauty  of  this  work.  The 
poet's  early  fame  is  fully  sustained  by  his  later  writings.  "  The  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade"  is  one  of  the  most  spirited  and  effective  poems  ever  written. 
"Idyls  of  the  King,"  for  vigor,  exquisite  utterance,  and  varied  interest,  is 
probably  inferior  to  no  corresponding  poem  in  any  language.  "  Lady  Clare," 
the  selection  here  introduced,  while  well  adapted  to  public  reading  and  poetu? 
recitation,  is  especially  valuable  as  an  exercise  in  Personation — see  p.  69. 

VI. 

102.     MAUD    MULLER. 

MAUD  MULLER,  on  a  summer's  day, 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 
Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health. 
Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 

2.  But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 
The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast — 
A  wish,  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

3.  The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 
He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 
Of  the  apple-trees,  to  greet  the  maid, 
And  ask  a  draught  from  the  spring  that  flowed 
Through  the  meadow,  across  the  road. 

4.  She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled  up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin-cup, 
And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 
"  Thanks  I"  said  tde  Judge  ;  "  a  sweeter  draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

5.  He  spoke  of  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing-birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 
Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered  whether 
The  cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul  weather. 


MAUD    MCLLER.  325 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles,  bare  and  brown, 
And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 
At  last,  liko  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

6.  Maud  Miillcr  looked  and  sighed  :  "Ah  me! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be ! 

He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  mo  at  his  wine. 
My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat, 
My  brother  should  Bail  a  painted  boat. 
I'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay. 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each  day. 
And  I'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the  poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door/' 

7.  The  Judgo  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the  hill, 
And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still : 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 

Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 

Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  i3  fair. 

"Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 

Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  : 

No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 

Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 

And  health,  and  quiet,  and  loviug  words." 

8.  But  he  thought  of  his  sister,  proud  and  cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 
So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
"When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love-tune  ; 
And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well, 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unrated  clover  fell. 

9.  He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 
Yet  6ft,  in. his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 


326  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 
And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

10.  Oft,  when  the  wine  in  his  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 
And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms, 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover  blooms  ; 
And  the  proud  man  sighed  with  a  secret  pain, — 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again ! 

Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day 

Wnere  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  the  hay." 

11.  She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door. 
But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  6ft,  when  the  summer's  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 
And  she  heard  the  little  spring-brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 
In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein, 
And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

12.  Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into'  stately  halls  ; 
The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinet '  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral 2  burned  ; 
And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug, 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug, 
A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 

And  joy  was  duty,  and  love  was  law. 
Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  again, 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

13.  Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge ! 
God  pity  them  both !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall ; 

1  Spinet,  a  musical  instrument  re-     lamp  having  the  oil  in  a  flattened 
eembling  a  harpsichord,  but  smaller,    ring  surmounted  by  a  hemisphere 
*  Astral,  (as'tral-lamp),  an  argaud    of  ground  glass. 


THE    DREAM.  327 

For  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 

The  saddest  are  these  :  "  It  might  have  been  !" 

Ah,  well !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 

Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 

Roll  tho  stone  from  its  grave  away.  Whither. 

JonN  Gkeenleaf  Wiiittiek,  one  of  the  truest  and  most  worthy  of  American 
poets,  was  born  near  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  in  1S0S.  Of  a  Quaker  family, 
his  youth  was  passed  at  home,  assisting  his  father  on  the  farm,  and  attending 
the  district  school  and  Haverhill  Academy.  In  1828  he  went  to  Boston,  and  be- 
came editor  of  a  newspaper  entitled  the  "American  Manufacturer,"  and  in  1830 
he  succeeded  George  D.  Prentice  as  editor  of  the  "  New  England  Weekly  Re- 
view," at  Hartford,  and  remained  connected  with  it  for  two  years.  For  several 
years  he  was  corresponding  editor  of  the  Washington  "  National  Era."  He  has 
been  a  prolific  and  popular  writer  both  in  prose  and  vrrsc.  A  complete  edition 
of  his  poems,  in  two  volumes,  appeared  in  18G3;  and  "Snow-Bound,  a  Winter 
Idyl,"  in  1806.  In  1840  Mr.  Whittier  removed  to  Amcsbury,  Massachusetts, 
where  all  his  later  publications  have  been  written,  and  where  he  still  resides. 

VII. 

103.     THE    DREAM. 

PART    FIRST. 

OUR  life  is  twofold  :  sleep  hath  its  own  world — 
A  boundary  between  the  things  misnamed 
Death  and  existence  :  sleep  hath  its  own  world, 
And  a  wide  realm  of  wild  reality  ; 
And  dreams  in  their  development  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  tortures,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thoughts ; 
They  take  a  weight  from  off  our  waking  toils  ; 
They  do  divide  our  being  ;  they  become 
A  portion  of  ourselves  as  of  our  time, 
And  look  like  heralds  of  Eternity  ; 
They  pass  like  spirits  of  the  past, — they  speak 
Like  sibyls '  of  the  future  ;  they  have  power — 
The  tyranny  of  pleasure  and  of  pain  ; 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not — what  they  will : 

1  Sib'yl,  a  woman  supposed  to  be  variously  stated  ;  but  among  the  an- 

endowed  with  a  spirit  of  prophecy  :  cients,  they  were  believed  to  be  ten. 

hence,   a    female    fortune-teller,   or  They  resided  in  various  parts  of  Per- 

gipsy.     The  number  of  the  sibyls  is  sia,  Greece,  and  Italy. 


328  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  They  shake  us  with  the  vision  that's  gone  by, 
The  dread  of  vanished  shadows — are  they  so  ? 
Is  not  the  past  all  shadow  ?     What  are  they  ? 
Creations  of  the  mind  ? — the  mind  can  niake 
Substance,  and  people  planets  of  its  own 
"With  beings  brighter  than  have  been,  and  give 
A  breath  to  forms  which  can  outlive  all  flesh. 

I  would  recall  a  vision,  which  I  dreamed 
Perchance  in  sleep — for  in  itself  a  thought, 
A  slumbering  thought,  is  capable  of  years, 
And  curdles  a  long  life  into  one  hour. — 

3.  I  saw  two  beings  in  the  hues  of  youth 
Standing  upon  a  hill,  a  gentle  hill, 
Green  and  of  mild  declivity  ;  the  last, 

As  't  were  the  cape,  of  a  long  ridge  of  such, 
Save  that  there  was  no  sea  to  lave  its  base, 
But  a  most  living  landscape,  and  the  wave 
Of  woods  and  cornfields,  and  the  abodes  of  men 
Scattered  at  intervals,  and  wreathing  smoke 
Arising  from  such  rustic  roofs  ; — the  hill 
"Was  crowned  with  a  peculiar  diadem 
Of  trees,  in  circular  array — so  fixed, 
Not  by  the  sport  of  Nature,  but  of  man  : 
These  two,  a  maiden  and  a  youth,  were  there 
Gazing — the  one  on  all  that  was  beneath  ; 
Fair  as  herself — but  the  boy  gazed  on  her  ; 
And  both  were  young,  and  one  was  beautiful  ; 
And  both  were  young — yet  not  alike  in  youth. 

4.  As  the  sweet  moon  on  the  hori'zon's  verge, 
The  maid  was  on  the  eve  of  womanhood  : 
The  boy  had  fewer  summers  ;  but  his  heart 
Had  far  outgrown  his  years,  and  to  his  eye 
There  was  but  one  beloved  face  on  earth, 
And  that  was  shining  on  him  :  he  had  looked 
Upon  it  till  it  could  not  pass  away  ; 

He  had  no  breath,  no  being,  but  in  hers  ; 
She  was  his  voice  ;  he  did  not  speak  to  her, 
But  trembled  on  her  words  ;  she  was  his  sight, 
For  his  eye  followed  hers,  and  saw  with  hers, 


THE    DREAM.  329 

Which  colored  all  his  objects  ; — he  had  ceased 

To  livo  within  himself  ;  she  was  his  life, 

The  ocean  to  the  river  of  his  thoughts, 

"Which  terminated  all  ;  upon  a  tone, 

A  touch  of  hers,  his  blood  would  ebb  and  flow, 

And  his  check  change  tempestuously — his  heart 

Unknowing  of  its  cause  of  agony. 

5.  But  she  in  these  fond  feelings  had  no  sharo  : 
Her  sighs  were  not  for  him  ;  to  her  he  was 
Even  as  a  brother — but  no  more  ;  't  was  much  ; 
For  brotherless  she  was,  save  in  the  name 
Her  infant  friendship  had  bestowed  on  him — 
Herself  tho  solitary  scion  left 

Of  a  time-honored  race. — It  was  a  name 

Which  pleased  him,  and  yet  pleased  him  not — and  why  ? 

Time  taught  him  a  deep  answer — when  she  loved 

Another.     Even  now  she  loved  another  ; 

And  on  the  summit  of  that  hill  she  stood 

Looking  afar,  if  yet  her  lover's  steed 

Kept  pace  with  her  expectancy,  and  flew. — 

6.  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
There  was  an  ancient  mansion  ;  and  before 
Its  walls  there  was  a  steed  caparisoned. 
Within  an  antique  oratory  stood 

The  Boy  of  whom  I  spake — he  was  alone, 

And  pale,  and  pacing  to  and  fro.     Anon 

He  sate  him  down,  and  seized  a  pen  and  traced 

Words  which  I  could  not  guess  of  ;  then  he  leaned 

His  bowed  head  on  his  hands,  and  shook,  as  't  were 

With  a  convulsion — then  arose  again  ; 

And  with  his  teeth  and  quivering  hands  did  tear 

What  he  had  written  ;  but  he  shed  no  tears. 

And  ho  did  calm  himself,  and  fix  his  brow 

Into  a  kind  of  quiet. 

7.  As  he  paused 
The  lady  of  his  love  reentered  there  ; 
She  was  serene  and  smiling  then  ;  and  yet 
She  knew  she  was  by  him  beloved  ;  she  knew — 
How  quickly  comes  such  knowledge  !  that  his  heart 
Was  darkened  with  her  shadow,  and  she  saw 


330  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

That  he  was  wretched  ;  but  she  saw  not  all. 

He  rose,  and  with  a  cold  and  gentle  grasp 

He  took  her  hand  ;  a  moment  o'er  his  face 

A  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 

Was  traced  ;  and  then  it  faded  as  it  came. 

He  dropped  the  hand  he  held,  and  with  slow  steps 

Retired  ;  but  not  as  bidding  her  adieu, 

For  they  did  part  with  mutual  smiles.     He  passed 

From  out  the  massy  gate  of  that  old  Hall ; 

And,  mounting  on  his  steed,  he  went  his  way  ; 

And  ne'er  repassed  that  hoary  threshold  more. 

VIII. 
104.     THE    DREAM. 

PART    SECOND. 

A  CHANGE  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream : 
The  Boy  was  sprung  to  manhood.     In  the  wilds 
Of  fiery  climes  he  made  himself  a  home, 
And  his  soul  drank  their  sunbeams  ;  he  was  girt 
Wifti  strange  and  dusky  aspects  ;  he  was  not 
Himself  like  what  he  had  been  ;  on  the  sea 
And  on  the  shore  he  was  a  wanderer  ; 
There  was  a  mass  of  many  images 
Crowded  like  waves  upon  me,  but  he  was 
A  part  of  all ;  and  in  the  last  he  lay, 
Reposing  from  the  noontide  sultriness, 
Couched  among  fallen  columns,  in  the  shade 
Of  ruined  walls  that  had  survived  the  names 
Of  those  who  reared  them  ;  by  his  sleeping  side 
Stood  camels  grazing,  and  some  goodly  steeds 
Were  fastened  near  a  fountain  ;  and  a  man 
Clad  in  a  flowing  garb  did  watch  the  while, 
While  many  of  his  tribe  slumbered  around ; 
And  they  were  canopied  by  the  blue  sky — 
So  cloudless,  clear,  and  purely  beautiful, 
That  God  alone  was  to  be  seen  in  Heaven. — 

2    A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The  Lady  of  his  love  was  wed  with  one 
Who  did  not  love  her  better.     In  her  home, 


THE    DREAM.  331 

A  thousand  leagues  from  his, — her  native  home — 
She  dwelt,  begirt  with  growing  infancy, 
Daughters  and  sons  of  Beauty.     But  behold ! 
Upon  her  face  there  was  the  tint  of  grief, 
The  settled  shadow  of  an  inward  strife, 
And  an  unquiet  drooping  of  the  eye, 
As  if  its  lid  were  charged  with  unshed  tears. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — She  had  all  she  loved  ; 
And  he  who  had  so  loved  her  was  not  there 
To  trouble  with  bad  hopes,  or  evil  wish, 
Or  ill-repressed  affection,  her  pure  thoughts. 
What  could  her  grief  be  ? — she  had  loved  him  not, 
Nor  given  him  cause  to  deem  himself  beloved  ; 
Nor  could  he  be  a  part  of  that  which  preyed 
Upon  her  mind — a  spectre  of  the  past. — 

3.  A  change  camo  6'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The  Wanderer  was  returned — I  saw  him  stand 
BefOre  an  altar,  with  a  gentle  bride  ; 

Her  face  was  fair  ;  but  was  not  that  which  made 
The  starlight  of  his  Boyhood.     As  he  stood, 
Even  at  the  altar,  o'er  his  brow  there  came 
The  self-same  aspect,  and  the  quivering  shock 
That  in  the  antique  oratory  shook 
His  bosom  in  its  solitudo  ;  and  then — 
As  in  that  hour — a  moment  o'er  his  face 
The  tablet  of  unutterable  thoughts 
Was  traced — and  then  it  faded  as  it  came 
And  he  stood  calm  and  quiet ;  and  he  spoke 
The  fitting  vows,  but  heard  not  his  own  words  ; 
And  all  things  reeled  around  him  ;  he  could  see 
Not  that  which  was,  nor  that  which  should  have  been — 
But  the  old  mansion,  and  the  accustomed  hall, 
And  the  remembered  chambers,  and  the  place, 
The  day,  the  hour,  the  sunshine,  and  the  shade- 
All  things  pertaining  to  that  place  and  hour, 
And  her  who  was  his  destiny — came  back 
And  thrust  themselves  between  him  and  the  light  : 
What  business  had  they  there  at  such  a  time '? — 

4.  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The  Ladv  of  his  love — Oh !  she  was  changed, 


332  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER, 

As  by  the  sickness  of  the  soul ;  her  mind 
Had  wandered  from  its  dwelling  ;  and  her  eyes, 
They  had  not  their  own  luster,  but  the  look 
Which  is  not  of  the  earth  ;  she  was  become 
The  queen  of  a  fantastic  realm  ;  her  thoughts 
Were  combinations  of  disjointed  things  ; 
And  forms  impalpable,  and  unperceived 
Of  others'  sight,  familiar  were  to  hers. 
And  this  the  world  calls  frenzy  ;  but  the  wise 
Have  a  far  deeper  madness,  and  the  glance 
Of  melancholy  is  a  fearful  gift ; 
What  is  it  but  the  telescope  of  truth  ? 
Which  strips  the  distance  of  its  fantasies, 
And  brings  life  near  in  utter  nakedness, 
Making  the  cold  reality  too  real ! — 

5.  A  change  came  o'er  the  spirit  of  my  dream  : 
The  Wanderer  was  alone,  as  heretofore  ; 
The  beings  which  surrounded  him  were  gone, 
Or  were  at  war  with  him  ;  he  was  a  mark 
For  blight  and  desolation — compassed  round 
With  Hatred  and  Contention  ;  Pain  was  mixed 
In  all  which  was  served  up  to  him  ;  until, 
Like  to  the  Pontic  monarch  of  old  days, 

He  fed  on  poisons  ;  and  they  had  no  power, 
But  were  a  kind  of  nutriment. 

6.  He  lived 
Through  that  which  had  been  death  to  many  men  ; 
And  made  him  friends  of  mountains.     With  the  stars, 
And  the  quick  spirit  of  the  Universe, 

He  held  his  dialogues !  and  they  did  teach 
To  him  the  magic  of  their  mysteries  ; 
To  him  the  book  of  Night  was  opened  wide, 
And  voices  from  the  deep  abyss  revealed 
A  marvel  and  a  secret — Be  it  so. 

7.  My  dream  was  past :  it  had  no  further  change. 
It  was  of  a  strange  order,  that  the  doom 

Of  these  two  creatures  should  be  thus  traced  out 

Almost  like  a  reality — the  one 

To  end  in  madness — both  in  misery.  Lord  Byeon. 


SCENE    FROM    THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  333 

A. 

105.     SCENE    FROM    THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.1 
Melnotte's  cottage — Widow  bustling  about.    A  table  spread  for  supper. 

~TT~TLDOW.  So — I  think  that  looks  very  neat.     He  sent  me 

V  V  a  line,  so  blotted  that  I  can  scarcely  read  it,  to  say  he 
would  be  here  almost  immediately.  She  must  have  loved  him 
well  indeed,  to  have  forgotten  his  birth  ;  for  though  he  was 
introduced  to  her  in  disguise,  he  is  too  honorable  not  to  have 
revealed  to  her  the  artifice  which  her  love  onlv  could  forgive. 
Well,  I  do  not  wonder  at  it ;  for  though  my  son  is  not  a  prince, 
he  ought  to  be  one,  and  that's  almost  as  good-  [Knock  at  the 
door.']     Ah!  here  they  are.      [Enter  Melnotte  and  Pauline.*] 

Widow.  Oh,  my  boy — the  pride  of  my  heart! — welcome,  wel- 
come !     I  beg  pardon,  Ma'am,  but  I  do  love  him  so ! 

Pauline.  Good  woman,  I  really — \Vhy,  Prince,  what  is  this? 
— does  the  old  woman  know  you  ?  Oh,  I  guess  you  have  done 
her  some  service.     Another  proof  of  your  kind  heart,  is  it  not  ? 

Melnotte.  Of  my  kind  heart,  ay ! 

Pauline.  So,  you  know  the  prince? 

Widow.  Know  him,  Madame  ? — Ah,  I  begin  to  fear  it  is  you 
who  know  him  not ! 

Pauline.  Do  you  think  she  is  mad?  Can  we  stay  here,  my 
lord  ?     I  think  there's  something  very  wild  about  her. 

Melnotte.  Madame,  I — No,  I  can  not  tell  her!  My  knee3 
knock  together  :  what  a  coward  ij  a  man  who  has  lost  his 
honor!  Speak  to  her — speak  to  her — [to  his  mother] — tell  her 
that — 0  Heaven,  that  I  were  dead ! 

Pauline.  How  confused  he  looks! — this  strange  place — this 
woman — what  can  it  mean?  I  half  suspect — Who  are  you, 
Madame? — who  are  you?  Can't  you  speak?  are  you  struck 
dumb? 

Widow.  Claude,  you  have  not  deceived  her? — Ah,  shame  upon 

1  Claude     Melnotte,     who     had  immediate   amends;  and,  impelled 

received    many    indignities    to    his  by  affection,  virtue,  and  a  laudable 

slighted  love,  from  Pauline,  married  ambition,   finally   conquers  a  posi- 

her  under  the   false  appearance  of  tion,    and    becomes,    in    fact,    her 

an    Italian    prince.      He   afterward  husband, 

repents  his  bitter  revenge  ;  makes  3  Pauline,  (pa  lcn'). 


334  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

you !     I  thought  that,  before  you  went  to  the  altar,  she  was  to 
have  known  all  ? 

Pauline.  All !  what  ?     My  blood  freezes  in  my  veins ! 

Widow.  Poor  lady! — dare  I  tell  her,  Claude?  [Melnotte 
makes  a  sign  of  assent.]  Know  you  not  then,  Madame,  that  this 
young  man  is  of  poor  though  honest  parents  ?  Know  you  not 
that  you  are  wedded  to  my  son,  Claude  Melnotte  ? 

Pauline.  Your  son!  hold!  hold!  do  not  speak  to  me — [ap- 
proaches Melnotte  and  lays  her  hand  on  his  a7in.]  Is  this  a  jest? 
Is  it  ?  I  know  it  is  .  only  speak — one  word — one  look — one 
smile.  I  can  not  believe — I,  who  loved  thee  so — I  can  not  be- 
lieve that  thou  art  such  a — No,  I  will  not  wrong  thee  by  a  harsh 
word. — Speak ! 

Melnotte.  Leave  us — have  pity  on  her,  on  me  :  leave  us. 

Widow.  O  Claude !  that  I  should  live  to  see  thee  bowed  by 
shame !  thee,  of  whom  I  was  so  proud !  [Exit  Widow. 

Pauline.  Her  son !  her  son ! 

Melnotte.  Now,  lady,  hear  me. 

Pauline.  Hear  thee 

Ay,  speak.     Her  son !  have  fiends  a  parent  ?     Speak, 
That  thou  mayst  silence  curses — Speak ! 

Melnotte.  No,  curse  me  : 

Thy  curse  would  blast  me  less  than  thy  forgiveness. 

Pauline,  [laughing  wildly.]     "  This  is  thy  palace,  where  the 
perfumed  light 
Steals  through  the  mist  of  alabaster  lamps, 
And  every  air  is  heavy  with  the  sighs 
Of  orange-groves,  and  music  from  the  sweet  lutes, 
And  murmurs  of  low  fountains,  that  gush  forth 
I*  the  midst  of  roses  !     Dost  thou  like  the  picture  ? 
This  is  my  bridal  home,  and  tiiou  my  bridegroom ! 

0  fool ! — O  dupe ! — O  wretch ! — I  see  it  all — 
The  by-word  and  the  jeer  of  every  tongue 

In  Lyons !     Hast  thou  in  thy  heart  one  touch 
Of  human  kindness  ?     If  thou  hast,  why,  kill  me, 
And  save  thy  wife  from  madness.     No,  it  can  not, 
It  can  not  be !  this  is  some  horrid  dream  : 

1  shall  wake  soon.     [  Touching  him.]    Art  flesh  ?  art  man  ?  or  but 
The  shadows  seen  in  sleep  ? — It  is  too  real. 

What  have  I  done  to  thee — how  sinned  against  thee, 


SCENE    FROM    THE    LADV    OF    LYONS.  3&> 

That  thou  shouldst  crush  me  thus  ? 

Melnotte.  Pauline !  by  pride 

Angels  have  fallen  ere  thy  time  ;  by  pride — 
That  sole  alloy  of  thy  most  lovely  mold — 
The  evil  spirit  cf  a  bitter  love, 
And  a  revengeful  heart,  had  power  upon  thee. 
From  my  first  years,  my  soul  was  filled  with  thee  : 
I  saw  thee,  midst  the  flowers  the  lowly  boy 
Tended,  unmarked  by  thee — a  spirit  of  bloom, 
And  joy,  and  freshness,  as  if  Spring  itself 
Were  made  a  living  thing,  and  wore  thy  shape ! 
I  saw  thee !  and  the  passionate  heart  of  man 
Entered  the  breast  of  the  wild-dreaming  boy  ; 
And  from  that  hour  I  grew — what  to  the  last 
I  shall  be — thine  adorer !     Well !  this  love, 
Vain,  frantic,  guilty,  if  thou  wilt,  becamo 
A  fountain  of  ambition  and  bright  hope  : 
I  thought  of  tales  that  by  the  winter  hearth 
Old  gossips  tell — how  maidens,  sprung  from  kings, 
Have  stooped  from  their  high  sphere  ;  how  Love,  like  Death, 
Levels  all  ranks,  and  lays  the  shepherd's  crook 
Beside  the  scepter.     Thus  I  made  my  home 
In  the  soft  palace  of  a  fairy  Future ! 

My  father  died  ;  and  I,  the  peasant-born, 
Was  my  own  lord.     Then  did  I  seek  to  rise 
Out  of  the  prison  of  my  mean  estate  ; 
And,  with  such  jewels  as  the  exploring  Mind 
Brings  from  the  caves  of  Knowledge,  bay  my  ransom 
From  those  twin  jailers  of  the  daring  heart — 
Low  Birth  and  iron  Fortune.     Thy  bright  image, 
Glassed  in  my  soul,  took  all  the  hues  of  glury, 
And  lured  me  on  to  those  inspiring  toils 
By  which  man  masters  "man  !     For  thee  I  grew 
A  midnight  student  o'er  the  dreams  of  sages  : 
For  thee  I  sought  to  borrow  from  each  Grace, 
And  every  Muse,  such  attributes  as  lend 
Ideal  charms  to  Love.     I  thought  of  thee, 
And  Passion  taught  me  poesy — of  thee, 
And  on  the  painter's  canvas  grew  the  life 
Of  beauty ! — Art  became  the  shadow 


336  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Of  the  dear  star-light  of  thy  haunting  eyes ! 
Men  called  me  vain — some  mad  :  I  heeded  not, 
But  still  toiled  on — hoped  on — for  it  was  sweet, 
If  not  to  win,  to  feel  more  worthy  thee ! 

Pauline.  Has  he  a  magic  to  exorcise  hate? 

Melnotle.  At  last,  in  one  mad  hour,  I  dared  to  pour 
The  thoughts  that  burst  their  channels  into  song, 
And  sent  them  to  thee, — such  a  tribute,  lady, 
As  beauty  rarely  scorns,  even  from  the  meanest. 
The  name — appended  by  the  burning  heart 
That  longed  to  show  its  idol  what  bright  things 
It  had  created — yea,  the  enthusiast's  name 
That  should  have  been  thy  triumph,  was  thy  scorn ! 
That  very  hour, — when  passion,  turned  to  wrath, 
Resembled  hatred  most — when  thy  disdain 
Made  my  whole  soul  a  chaos, — in  that  hour 
The  tempters  found  me  a  revengeful  tool 
For  their  revenge  !     Thou  hadst  trampled  on  the  worm — 
It  turned  and  stung  thee ! 

Pauline.  Love,  Sir,  hath  no  sting, 

What  was  the  slight  of  a  poor  powerless  girl, 
To  the  deep  wrong  of  this  most  vile  revenge  ? 
Oh,  how  I  loved  this  man ! — a  serf! — a  slave ! 

Melnotle.  Hold,  lady  I — No,  not  slave !     Despair  is  free. 
I  will  not  tell  thee  of  the  throes — the  struggles — 
The  anguish — the  remorse.     No — let  it  pass ! 
And  let  me  come  to  such  most  poor  atonement 
Yet  in  my  power.     Pauline ! —  [Approaching  her  with  great 

emotion,  and  about  to  take  her  hand% 

Pauline.  No,  touch  me  not ! 

I  know  my  fate.     You  are,  by  law,  my  tyrant ; 
And  I — O  Heaven ! — a  peasant's  wife !     I'll  work, 
Toil,  drudge  ;  do  what  thou  wilt ;  but  touch  mo  not : 
Let  my  wrongs  make  me  sacred ! 

Melnotle.  Do  not  fear  me. 

Thou  dost  not  know  me,  Madame  :  at  the  altar 
My  vengeance  ceased — my  guilty  oath  expired ! 
Henceforth,  no  imago  of  some  marble  saint, 
Niched  in  cathedral's  aisles,  is  hallowed  more 
From  the  rude  hand  of  sacrilegious  wrong. 


SCENE    FROM    THE    LADY    OF    LYONS.  3^7 

I  am  thy  husband — nay,  thou  need'st  not  shudder  ; — 

Here,  at  thy  feet,  I  lay  a  husband's  rights. 

A  marriage  thus  unholy — unfulfilled — 

A  bond  of  fraud — i3,  by  the  laws  of  France, 

Made  void  and  null.     To-night,  then,  sleep — in  peace. 

To-inorrow,  pure  and  virgin  as  this  morn 

I  bore  thee,  bathed  in  blushes,  from  the  altar, 

Thy  father's  arms  shall  take  thee  to  thy  home. 

The  Jaw  shall  do  thee  justice,  and  restore 

Thy  right  to  bless  another  with  thy  love, 

And  when  thou  art  happy,  and  hast  half  forgot 

Him  who  so  loved — so  wronged  thee,  think  at  least 

Heaven  left  some  remnant  of  the  angel  still 

In  that  poor  peasant's  nature ! — Ho  !  my  mother ! 

Enter  Widow. 
Conduct  this  lady  (she  is  not  my  wife — 
She  is  our  guest,  our  honored  guest,  my  mother!) 
To  the  poor  chamber  where  the  sleep  of  virtue 
Never  beneath  my  father's  honest  roof 
E'en  villains  dared  to  mar !     Now,  lady,  now, 
I  think  thou  wilt  believe  me. — Go,  mv  mother! 

Widowi  She  is  not  thy  wife ! 

Mdnotte.  Hush !  hush !  for  mercy  sake  : 

Speak  not,  but  go.  [Widow  ascends  the  stairs;  Pauline 

follows  weeping — turns  to  look  back. 

Melnotte  [sinking  down.]  All  angels  bless  and  guard  her! 

fcYTTON. 

Sir  Edwakd  Bi.lweu  Lttton,  youngest  son  of  the  late  Gen.  Bulwer,  of  Hey  - 
don  Hall,  Norwalk,  England,  who  has  assumed  the  surname  of  his  mother's 
family,  was  born  in  1S05.  He  exhibited  proofs  of  superior  talents  at  a  very  early 
period,  having  written  verses  when  only  live  or  six  yean  old.  His  preliminary 
studies  were  conducted  under  the  eye  of  his  mother,  a  woman  of  cultivated  taste 
and  rare  accomplishments.  He  graduated  with  honor  at  Trinity  College,  Ox- 
ford, having  won  the  chancellor's  medal  for  the  best  English  poem.  In  1S2G  he 
published  "  Weeds  and  Wild  Flowers,"  a  small  volume  of  poems;  and  the  fol- 
lowing year  his  first  novel,  "  Falkland,"  appeared.  Since  that  time  he  has  been 
constantly  before  the  public  a>  an  author,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  Of  his  early 
novels,  perhaps, "  Ricnzi"  is  the  most  complete,  high-toned,  and  energetic:  of  his 
more  recent  ones  his  "  Caxtons,"  nnd  "My  Novel,  or  Varieties  in  English  Life," 
arc  regarded  as  the  best.  About  1S32,  he  became  editor  of  the  "  New  Monthly 
Magazine;  and  to  that  journal  he  contributed  essays  and  criticisms,  subse- 
quently published  under  the  title  of  "The  Student."  Of  his  dramas,  "The  Lady 
of  Lyons,"  "Richelieu,"  and  "  Money."  are,  perhaps,  three  of  the  most  popular 
plays  now  upon  the  stage.    The  lirst  of  these,  from  which  the  preceding  extract 


338  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

is  taken,  seldom  fails  of  drawing  tears  when  well  represented.  -  Few  authors 
have  displayed  more  versatility.  His  language  and  imagery  are  often  exquisite, 
and  his  power  of  delineating  certain  classes  of  character  and  manners  superior 
to  that  of  any  of  his  contemporaries.  He  commenced  his  political  life  in  1831, 
when  he  entered  parliament,  where  he  became  conspicuous  for  his  advocacy  of 
the  rights  of  dramatic  authors,  and  for  his  liberal  opinions  on  other  questions. 
His  speeches  in  parliament,  and  his  addresses,  have  served  to  raise  his  reputation. 
His  inaugural  address  as  rector  of  the  University  of  Glasgow,  in  particular,  has 
b:en  greatly  admired. 


SECTION    XIX. 
I. 

106.     A    GREAT    MAN    DEPARTED. 

THERE  was  a  festive  hall  with  mirth  resounding  ; 
Beauty  and  wit,  and  friendliness  surrounding  ; 
"With  minstrelsy  above,  and  dancing  feet  rebounding. 

2.  And  at  the  height  came  news,  that  held  suspended 
The  sparkling  glass ! — till  slow  the  hand  descended — 

And  ruddy  cheeks  grew  pale — and  all  the  mirth  was  ended. 

3.  Beneath  a  sunny  sky,  'twas  heard  with  wonder, — 
A  flash  had  cleft  a  lofty  tree  asunder, 

Without  a  previous  cloud,  and  with  no  rolling  thunder. 

4.  Strong  was  the  stem — its  boughs  above  all  'thralling — 
And  in  its  roots  and  sap  no  cankers  galling — 

Prosperity  was  perfect,  while  Death's  hand  was  falling. 

5.  Man's  body  is  less  safe  than  any  tree  ; 
We  build  our  ship  in  strong  security — 

A  Finger,  from  the  dark,  points  to  the  trembling  sea. 

6.  Man,  like  his  knowledge,  and  his  soul's  endeavor, 
Is  framed  for  no  fixed  altitude  ;  but  ever 

Moves  onward  ;  the  first  pause,  returns  all  to  the  Giver. 

7.  Riches  and  health,  fine  taste,  all  means  of  pleasure  ; 
Success  in  highest  efforts — fame's  best  treasure — 

All    these    were    thine — o'crtopped    and    overweighed    the 
measure, 

8.  But  in  recording  thus  life's  night-shade  warning, 

We  hold  the  memory  of  thy  kind  heart's  morning  :— 
Man's  intellect  is  not  man's  sole  nor  best  adorning. 


DANIEL    WEBSTER  33<J 

n. 

107.     DANIEL    WEBSTER.1 

PART    FIRST. 

BORN  upon  tho  vorgc  of  civilization, — his  father's  house  the 
furthest  by  four  miles  on  the  Indian  trail  to  Canada, — Mr. 
"Webster  retained  to  the  last  his  love  for  that  pure  fresh  nature 
in  which  he  was  cradled.  Tho  dashing  streams,  which  conduct 
the  waters  of  tho  queen  of  New  Hampshire's  lakes2  to  the  noble 
Merrimac  ;  tho  superb  group  of  mountains3  (the  Switzerland  of 
tho  United  States),  among  which  those  waters  have  their  sources ; 
the  primeval  forest,  whose  date  runs  back  to  the  twelfth  verso  of 
the  first  chapter  of  Genesis,*  and  never  since  creation  yielded  to 
the  settler's  ax  ;  tho  gray  buttresses  of  granite  which  prop  tho 
eternal  hills  ;  the  sacred  alternation  of  the  seasons,  wife  its 
magic  play  on  field  and  forest  and  flood  ;  the  gleaming  surfaco 
of  lake  and  stream  in  summer  ;  the  icy  pavement  with  which 
they  are  floored  in  winter ;  the  verdure  of  spring,  the  prismatic 
tints  of  the  autumnal  woods,  the  leafless  branches  of  December, 
glittering  like  arches  and  cor'ridors  of  silver  and  crystal  in  the 
enchanted  palaces  of  fairy -land — sparkling  in  the  morning  sun 
with  winter's  jewelry,  diamond  and  amethyst,  and  ruby  and 
sapphire  ;  the  cathedral  aisles  of  pathless  woods, — the  mournful 
hemlock,  the  "cloud-seeking  "  pine, — hung  with  drooping  creep- 
ers, like  funeral  banners  pendant  from  the  roof  of  chancel  or 
transept  over  the  graves  of  the  old  lords  of  the  soil ; — these  all 
retained  for  him  to  the  close  of  his  life  an  undying  charm. 

2.  But  though  he  ever  clun^  with  fondness  to  the  wild  inoun- 
tain  scenery  amidst  which  he  was  born  and  passed  his  youth,  he 
loved  nature  in  all  her  other  aspects.  The  simple  beauty  to 
which  he  had  brought  his  farm  at  Marsh  field/  its  approaches, 
its  grassy  lawns,  its  well-disposed  plantations  on  the  hill-sides, 

1  Extract  from  a  speech  at  the  Re-         *  Genesis,  chap,  i.,  v.  12,  And  the 

vere  House,  Boston,  Jan.  ISth,  ISoG,  earth  brought  forth  gnus,  and  herb 

in  commemoration  of  the  74th  anni-  yielding  seed  after  his  kind,  and  tho 

versary  of  Mr.  Webster's  birth-day.  tree  yielding  fruit,  whose  seed  was  in 

a  Win.,  (win^ne  pissokMu).  itself,  after  his  kind. 

*  Mountains,   the    White    Moun-         b  Marsh'  field,  a  village  on  Massa- 

tains,  of  which  Mount  Washington  chusetts  Buy,  28  miles  8.  E.  by  S.  of 

is  the  principal  summit.  B<»ston. 


340  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

unpretending  but  tasteful,  and  forming  a  pleasing  interchange 
with  his  large  corn-fields  and  turnip-patches,  showed  his  sensi- 
bility to  the  milder  beauties  of  civilized  culture- 

3.  He  understood,  no  one  better,  the  secret  sympathy  of  na- 
ture and  art,  and  often  conversed  on  the  principles  which  govern 
their  relations  with  each  other.  He  appreciated  the  infinite 
bounty  with  which  nature  furnishes  materials  to  the  artistic 
powers  of  man,  at  once  her  servant  and  master  ;  and  he  knew 
not  less  that  the  highest  exercise  of  art  is  but  to  imitate,  inter- 
pret, select,  and  combine  the  properties,  affinities,  and  propor- 
tions of  nature  ;  that  in  reality  they  are  parts  of  one  great  sys- 
tem ;  for  nature  is  the  Divine  Creator's  art,  and  art  is  rational 
man's  creation. 

4.  But  not  less  than  mountain  and  plain  he  loved  the  sea. 
He  loved  to  walk  and  ride  and  drive  upon  that  magnificent 
beach  which  stretches  from  Green  Harbor1  all  round  to  the 
Gurnet.  He  loved  to  pass  hours,  I  may  say  days,  in  his  little 
boat.  He  loved  to  breathe  the  healthful  air  of  the  salt-water. 
He  loved  the  music  of  the  ocean,  through  all  the  mighty  octaves 
deep  and  high  of  its  far-resounding  register  ;  from  the  lazy  plash 
of  a  midsummer's  ripple  upon  the  margin  of  some  oozy  creek  to 
the  sharp  howl  of  the  tempest,  which  wrenches  a  light-house 
from  its  clamps  and  bolts,  fathoms  deep,  in  the  living  rock,  as 
easily  as  a  gardener  pulls  a  weed  from  his  flower-border. 

5.  There  was,  in  fact,  a  manifest  sympathy  between  his  great 
mind  and  this  world-surrounding,  deep-heaving,  measureless, 
everlasting,  infinite  deep.  His  thoughts  and  conversation  of/en 
turned  upon  it,  and  its  great  organic  relations  with  other  parts 
of  nature  and  with  man.  I  have  heard  him  allude  to  the  mvs- 
terious  analogy  between  the  circulation  carried  on  by  veins  and 
arteries,  heart  and  lungs,  and  that  wonderful  interchange  of 
venous  and  arterial  blood, — that  miraculous  complication  which 
lies  at  the  basis  of  animal  life, — and  that  equally  complicated 
and  more  stupendous  circulation  of  river,  ocean,  vapor,  and  rain, 
which  from  the  fresh  currents  of  the  rivers  fills  the  depths  of 
the  salt  sea  ;  then  by  vaporous  distillation  carries  the  waters 


1  Green  Harbor  is   tho  name  of  Plymouth  li^ht-houses  are  erected. 

a   small   creek  on  the  sea-shore  of  The  distance  between  Ci  reen  Harbor 

Marshfield,   and    the    Gurnet    is    a  and  the  Gurnet  is  between  four  and 

projection   or  point  on   which   the  five  miles. 


DANIEL    WEBSTER.  341 

•which  are  under  the  firmament  up  to  the  oioudy  cisterns  cf  the 
waters  above  the  firmament  ;  wafts  them  on  the  dripping  wings 
of  the  wind  against  the  mountain  sides,  precipitates  them  to  the 
earth  in  the  form  of  rain,  and  leads  them  again  through  a  thou- 
sand channels,  open  and  secret,  to  the  beds  of  the  rivers,  and 
so  back  to  the  sea. 

HI. 
108.     DANIEL    WEBSTER. 

PAliT    SECOND. 

W^ERE  I  to  fix  upon  any  one  trait  as  the  prominent  trait  of 
Mr.  Webster's  personal  character  it  would  be  his  social 
disposition,  his  loving  heart.  If  there  ever  was  a  person  who 
felt  all  the  meaning  of  the  divine  utterance,  "  it  is  not  good  that 
man  should  be  alone,"  it  was  he.  Notwithstanding  the  vast  re- 
sources of  his  own  mind,  and  the  materials  for  self-communion 
laid  up  in  the  storehouse  of  such  an  intellect,  few  men  whom  I 
have  known  have  been  so  little  addicted  to  solitary  and  medita- 
tive introspection  ; l  to  few  have  social  intercourse,  sympathy, 
and  communion  with  kindred  or  friendly  spirits  been  so  grateful 
and  even  necessary. 

2.  He  loved  to  live  with  his  friends,  with  "good,  pleasant  men 
who  loved  him."  This  was  his  delight,  aliko  when  oppressed 
with  his  multiplied  cares  of  office  at  "Washington,  and  when 
enjoying  the  repose  and  quiet  of  Marshficld.  He  loved  to  meet 
his  friends  at  the  social  board,  because  it  is  there  that  men  most 
cast  off  the  burden  of  business  and  thought ;  there,  as  Cicero 
says,  that  conversation  is  sweetest ;  there  that  the  kindly  affec- 
tions have  the  fullest  play. 

3.  By  the  social  sympathies  thus  cultivated,  the  genial  con- 
sciousness of  individual  existence  becomes  more  intense.  And 
who  that  ever  enjoyed  it  can  forget  the  charm  of  his  hospitality, 
so  liberal,  so  choice,  so  thoughtful  ?  In  tho  very  last  days  of 
his  life,  and  when  confined  to  tho  couch  from  which  he  never 
rose,  he  continued  to  give  minute  directions  for  the  hospitable 
entertainment  of  the  anxious  and  sorrowful  Mends  who  camo 
to  Marshficld. 

4.  If  ho  enjoyed  society  himself,  how  much  he  contributed  to 

'  InM-ro  spec'tion,  a  view  of  the  interior  or  inside. 


342  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

its  enjoyment  in  others !  His  colloquial  powers  were,  I  think, 
quite  equal  to  his  parliamentary  and  forensic  talent.  He  had 
something  instructive  or  ingenious  to  say  on  the  most  familiar 
occasion.  In  his  playful  mood  he  was  not  afraid  to  trifle  ;  but  he 
never  prosed,  never  indulged  in  common-place,  never  dogmatized, 
was  never  affected.  His  range  of  information  was  so  vast,  his 
observation  so  acute  and  accurate,  his  tact  in  separating  the  im- 
portant from  the  unessential  so  nice,  his  memory  so  retentive,  his 
command  of  language  so  great,  that  his  common  table-talk,  if 
taken  down  from  his  lips,  would  have  stood  the  test  of  publication. 

5.  He  had  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and  repeated  or  list- 
ened to  a  humorous  anecdote  with  infinite  glee.  He  narrated  with 
unsurpassed  clearness,  brevity,  and  grace, — no  tedious,  unneces- 
sary details  to  spin  out  the  story,  the  fault  of  most  professed 
raconteurs,1 — but  its  main  points  set  each  in  its  place,  so  as  often 
to  make  a  little  dinner-table  epic,  but  all  naturally  and  without 
effort.  He  delighted  in  anecdotes  of  eminent  men,  especially 
of  eminent  Americans,  and  his  memory  was  stored  with  them. 
He  would  sometimes  briefly  discuss  a  question  in  natural  his- 
tory, relative,  for  instance,  to  climate,  or  the  races  and  habits 
and  breeds  of  the  different  domestic  animals,  or  the  various 
kinds  of  our  native  game,  for  he  knew  the  secrets  of  the  forest. 

6.  He  delighted  to  treat  a  topic  drawn  from  life,  manner, 
and  the  great  industrial  pursuits  of  the  community ;  and  he  did 
it  with  such  spirit  and  originality  as  to  throw  a  charm  around 
subjects  which,  in  common  hands,  are  trivial  and  uninviting. 
Nor  were  the  stores  of  our  sterling  literature  less  at  his  command. 
He  had  such  an  acquaintance  with  the  great  writers  of  our  lan- 
guage, especially  the  historians  and  poets,  as  enabled  him  to  en- 
rich his  conversation  with  the  most  apposite  allusions  and  illus- 
trations. When  the  occasion  and  character  of  the  company 
invited  it,  his  conversation  turned  on  higher  themes,  and  some- 
times rose  to  the  moral  sublime. 

7.  Ho  was  not  fond  of  the  technical  language  of  metaphysics, 
but  he  had  grappled,  like  the  giant  he  was,  with  its  most  formi- 
dable jDroblems.  Dr.  Johnson  was  wont  (wunt)  to  say  of  Burke, 
that  a  stranger  who  should  chance  to  meet  him  under  a  shed  in 
a  shower  of  rain,  would  say,  "  This  was  an  extraordinary  man." 
A  stranger  who  did  not  know  Mr.  Webster,  might  have  passed 

9  Raconteur,  (ra  kon'  tor),  a  relator  or  teller  of  stories. 


FROM    A   HISTORICAL    ADDRESS.  343 

a  day  with  him,  in  his  seasons  of  relaxation,  without  detecting 
the  jurist  or  the  statesman  ;  but  he  could  not  pass  a  half  hour 
with  him  without  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  one  of 
the  best  informed  of  men. 

8.  His  personal  appearance  contributed  to  the  attraction  of 
his  social  Intercourse.  His  countenance,  frame,  expression,  and 
presence,  arrested  and  fixed  attention.  You  could  not  pass  him 
unnoticed  in  a  crowd  ;  nor  fail  to  observe  in  him  a  man  of  high 
mark  and  character.  No  one  could  see  him  and  not  wish  to 
see  more  of  him,  and  this  alike  in  public  and  private. 

Edward  Everett. 

IV. 

109.     FROM    A    HISTORICAL    ADDRESS.1 

UNBORN  ages  and  visions  of  glory  crowd  upon  my  soul,  the 
realization  of  all  which,  however,  is  in  the  hands  and  good 
pleasure  of  Almighty  God  ;  but,  under  his  divine  blessing,  it  will 
be  dependent  on  the  character  and  the  virtues  of  ourselves,  and 
of  our  posterity.  If  classical  history  has  been  found  to  be,  is 
now,  and  shall  continue  to  be,  the  concomitant3  of  free  institu- 
tions, and  of  popular  eloquence,  what  a  field  is  opening  to  us  for 
another  Herod'otus,3  another  Thucydides,4  and  another  Livy  !  * 

1  Delivered  before  the  N.  Y.  His-         *  Thu  cyd'  i  des,  the  historian,  an 

torical  Society,  February  23,  1852.  Athenian   citizen,   was   born   about 

3  Con  cSm'  i  tant,    an   attendant;  B.  c.  471.     His  immortal  history  of 

that  which  accompanies.  the   Peloponnesian   war   is   divided 

1  He  r6d'  o  tus,  called  the  "Father  into  eight  books.     He  is  regarded  as 

of  History,"  a  native  of  Ilalicarnas-  first  in  the  first  rank  of  philosophical 

bus,  in  Asia  Minor,  was  born  b.  c.  484.  historians.     His  style  is  concise,  vig- 

His  history  consists  of  nine  books,  orous,and  energetic;  his  moral  reflec- 

which  bear  the   name   of  the  nine  tions  arc  searching  and  profound;  his 

Muses.     In   the   complexity   of    its  speeches  abound  in  political  wisdom  ; 

plan,  as  compared  with  the  simplic-  and    the   simple   minuteness  of  his 

ity  of  its  execution — in  the  multi-  pictures  is  often  striking  and  tragic, 
plicity  and  heterogeneous  nature  of        i  Livy,  an  illustrious  Roman  his- 

its  material,  and   the   harmony   of  torian,  was  born  in  Italy,  b.  c.  59, 

their  combinations — in  the  grandeur  and  died,  A.  D.  18.     He  has  erected 

of  its  historical    masses,   and    the  to  himself  an  enduring  monument 

minuteness  of  its  illustrative  details  in  his  History  of  Rome.     This  great 

— it  is  without  rival  or  parallel.     It  work  contained  tho  history  of  the 

may  be  regarded  as  the  perfection  Roman  State  from  the  earliest  period 

of  epic  prose.  till  the  death  of  Prusus,  b.  c.  9,  and 


344  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

2.  And  let  roe  say,  gentlemen,  that  if  we  and  our  posterity 
shall  be  true  to  the  Christian  religion, — if  we  and  they  shall  live 
always  in  the  fear  of  God,  and  shall  respect  his  commandments,  — 
if  we  and  they  shall  maintain  just,  moral  sentiments,  and  such 
conscientious  convictions  of  duty  as  shall  control  the  heart  and 
life, — we  may  have  the  highest  hopes  of  the  future  fortunes  of 
our  country  ;  and  if  we  maintain  those  institutions  of  govern- 
ment and  that  political  union,  exceeding  all  praise  as  much  as  it 
exceeds  all  former  examples  of  political  associations,  we  may  be 
sure  of  one  thing — that,  while  our  country  furnishes  materials 
for  a  thousand  masters  of  the  historic  art,  it  will  afford  no  topic 
for  a  Gibbon.  It  will  have  no  Decline  and  Fall.  It  will  go  on 
prospering  and  to  prosper. 

3.  But,  if  we  and  our  posterity  reject  religious  instruction  and 
authority,  violate  the  rules  of  eternal  justice,  trifle  with  the  in- 
junctions of  morality,  and  recklessly  destroy  the  political  consti- 
tution which  holds  us  together,  no  man  can  tell  how  sudden  a 
catas'trophe  may  overwhelm  us,  that  shall  bury  all  our  glory  in 
profound  obscurity.  Should  that  catastrophe  happen,  let  it  have 
no  history !  Let  the  horrible  narrative  never  be  written !  Let 
its  fate  be  like  that  of  the  lost  books  of  Livy,  which  no  human 
eye  shall  ever  read  ;  or  the  missing  Pleiad,1  of  which  no  man 
can  ever  know  more,  than  that  it  is  lost,  and  lost  forever ! 

4.  But,  gentlemen,  I  will  not  take  my  leave  of  you  in  a  tone 
of  despondency.  "We  may  trust  that  Heaven  will  not  forsake 
us,  nor  permit  us  to  forsake  ourselves.  We  must  strengthen 
ourselves,  and  gird  up  our  loins  with  new  resolution  ;  we  must 
counsel  each  other  ;  and,  determined  to  sustain  each  other  in 
the  support  of  the  Constitution,  prepare  to  meet  manfully,  and 
united,  whatever  of  difficulty  or  of  danger,  whatever  of  effort  or 
of  sacrifice,  the  providence  of  God  may  call  upon  us  to  meet. 

5.  Are  we  of  this  generation  so  derelict,2  have  we  so  little  of 
the  blood  of  our  revolutionary  fathers  coursing  through  our 

originally  consisted  of  142  books,  of  seven  stars  in  the  neck  of  the  const  el- 

•which  only  o5  have  descended  to  us.  lation  Taurus.     There  are,  however, 

His  style  may  be  pronounced  almost  but  six  visible  to  the  naked  eye,  Al- 

faultless.  cyon  being  the  brightest,  and  hence 

1  Pleiad  (pie'  yad).    The  Pleiades,  the  expression  the  lost  Ph  iad. 

in  heathen  mythology,  were  the  seven  a  DeV  e  lici,  given  up  or  forsaken 

daughters  of  Atlas,  "who  were  trans-  by  the  natural  owner  or  guardian ; 

lated  to  the  heavens,  and  formed  the  unfaithful. 


FROM    A    HISTORICAL    ADDRESS  345 

vela  3,  that  we  c;m  not  preserve  what  they  achieved?  The  world 
will  cry  out  "  shame  "  upon  us,  if  we  show  ourselves  unworthy 
to  bo  the  descendants  of  those  great  and  illustrious  men,  who 
fought  for  their  liberty,  and  secured  it  to  their  posterity,  by 
the  Constitution  of  the  United  States. 

6.  Gentlemen,  inspiring  auspices,  this  day,  surround  us  and 
cheer  us.  It  is  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Washington. 
We  should  know  this,  even  if  we  had  lost  our  calendars,  for  we 
should  be  reminded  of  it  by  the  shouts  of  joy  and  gladness.  The 
whole  atmosphere  is  redolent  of  his  name  ;  hills  and  forests, 
rocks  and  rivers,  echo  and  reecho  his  praises.  All  the  good, 
whether  learned  or  unlearned,  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  feel, 
this  day,  that  there  is  one  treasure  common  to  them  all,  and  that 
is  the  fame  and  character  of  Washington.  They  recount  his 
deods,  ponder  over  his  principles  and  teachings,  and  resolve  to 
be  more  and  more  guided  by  them  in  the  future. 

7.  To  the  old  and  the  young,  to  all  born  in  the  land,  and  1<> 
all  whose  love  of  liberty  has  brought  them  from  foreign  shores 
to  make  this  the  home  of  their  adoption,  the  name  of  Washing- 
ton is  this  day  an  exhilarating  theme.  Americans  by  birth  an' 
proud  of  his  character,  and  exiles  from  foreign  shores  are  eager 
to  participate  in  admiration  of  him  ;  and  it  is  true  that  he  is, 
this  day,  here,  everywhere,  all  the  world  over,  more  an  object  of 
love  and  regard  than  on  any  day  since  his  birth. 

8.  Gentlemen,  on  Washington's  principles,  and  under  the 
guidance  of  his  example,  will  we  and  our  children  uphold  the 
Constitution.  Under  his  military  leadership  our  fathers  con- 
quered ;  and  under  the  outspread  banner  of  his  political  and 
constitutional  principles  will  we  also  conquer.  To  that  standard 
we  shall  adhere,  and  uphold  it  through  evil  report  and  through 
good  report.  We  will  meet  danger,  we  will  meet  death,  if  they 
como,  in  its  protection  ;  and  we  will  struggle  on,  in  daylight  and 
in  darkness,  ay,  in  the  thickest  darkness,  with  all  the  storms 
which  it  may  bring  with  it,  till  "  Danger's  troubled  night  is  o'er, 
and  the  star  of  Peace  return."  Webster. 

D.vniel  Webster,  one  of  the  greatest,  if  not  the  greatest  of  American  orators, 
jurists,  and  statesmen,  was  born  in  the  town  of  Salisbury,  New  Hampshire, 
January  18th,  1783.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  entered  Dartmouth  College,  where 
he  graduated  in  due  course,  exhibiting  remarkable  faculties  of  mind.  When  in 
his  nineteeuth  year,  he  delivered  a  Fourth  of  July  oration,  at  the  request  of  the 
citizens  of  Hanover,  which,  energetic,  and  well  stored  with  historical  matter, 


346  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

proved  hiin,  at  that  early  age,  something  more  than  a  sounder  of  empty  words. 
Upon  graduating,  in  1801,  he  assumed  the  charge  of  an  academy  for  a  year ; 
then  commenced  the  study  of  law  in  his  native  village,  which  he  completed  in 
Boston,  in  1S05.  He  first  practiced  his  profession  near  his  early  home ;  but,  not 
long  after,  feeling  the  necessity  of  a  wider  sphere  of  action,  he  removed  to  Ports* 
mouth,  where  he  soon  gained  a  prominent  position.  In  1812  he  was  elected  to  a 
scat  in  the  National  Congress,  where  he  displayed  remarkable  powers  both  as  a 
debater  and  an  orator.  In  lS17he  removed  to  Boston,  and  resumed  the  practice 
of  his  profession  with  the  highest  distinction.  In  1822  he  was  elected  to  a  seat 
in  Congress  from  the  crty  of  Boston ;  and  in  1827  was  chosen  senator  of  the 
United  States,  from  Massachusetts.  From  that  period  he  was  seldom  out  of 
public  life,  having  been  twice  Secretary  of  State,  in  which  office  he  died.  In 
1839  he  visited  England  and  France,  and  was  received  with  the  greatest  distinc- 
tion in  both  countries.  His  works,  arranged  by  his  friend,  Edward  Everett, 
were  published  in  six  volumes,  at  Boston,  in  1851.  They  bear  the  impress  of  a 
comprehensive  intellect  and  exalted  patriotism.  He  died  at  Marshfield,  sur- 
rounded by  his  friends,  October  24th,  1852.  The  last  words  he  uttered  were,  M I 
still  live."  Funeral  honors  were  paid  to  his  memory,  in  the  chief  cities  of  the 
Union,  by  processions  and  orations.  A  marble  block,  placed  in  front  of  hid 
tomb,  bears  the  inscription :  "  Lord,  I  believe,  help  thou  my  unbelief." 

V. 

110.     PUBLIC   VIRTUE. 

I  HOPE,  that  in  all  that  relates  to  personal  firmness,  all  that 
concerns  a  just  appreciation  of  the  insignificance  of  human 
life, — whatever  may  be  attempted  to  threaten  or  alarm  a  soul  not 
easily  swayed  by  opposition,  or  awed  or  intimidated  by  menace, 
— a  stout  heart  and  a  steady  eye,  that  can  survey',  unmoved  and 
undaunted,  any  mere  personal  perils  that  assail  this  poor,  tran- 
sient, perishing  frame, — I  may,  without  disparagement,  compare 
with  other  men. 

2.  But  there  is  a  sort  of  courage,  which,  I  frankly  confess  it, 
I  do  not  possess, — a  boldness  to  which  I  dare  not  aspire,  a  valor 
which  I  can  not  covet.  I  can  not  lay  myself  down  in  the  way 
of  the  welfare  and  happiness  of  my  country.  That  I  can  not,  I 
have  not  the  courage  to  do.  I  can  not  interpose  the  power  with 
which  I  may  be  invested — a  power  conferred,  not  for  my  per- 
sonal benefit,  nor  for  my  aggran'dizement,  but  for  my  country's 
good — to  check  her  onward  march  to  greatness  and  glory.  I 
have  not  courage  enough.     I  am  too  cowardly  for  that. 

3.  I  would  not,  I  dare  not,  in  the  exercise  of  such  a  trust,  lio 
down,  and  place  my  body  across  the  path  that  leads  my  country 
to  prosperity  and  happiness.  This  is  a  sort  of  courage  widely 
different  from  that  which  a  man  may  display  in  his  private  con- 


PUBLIC    VIRTUE.  347 

duct  and  personal  relations.  Personal  or  private  courage  is  to- 
tally distinct  from  that  higher  and  nobler  courage  which  prompts 
the  patriot  to  oiier  himself  a  voluntary  sacrifice  to  his  country's 
good. 

4.  Apprehensions  of  the  imputation  of  the  "want  of  firmness 
sometimes  impel  us  to  perform  rash  and  inconsiderate  acts.  It 
is  the  greatest  courage  to  be  able  to  bear  the  imputation  of  the 
want  of  courage.  But  pride,  vanity,  egotism,  so  unamiablo  and 
offensive  in  private  life,  are  vices  which  partake  of  the  character 
of  crimes,  in  the  conduct  of  public  affairs.  The  unfortunate  vic- 
tim of  these  passions  can  not  see  beyond  the  little,  petty,  con- 
temptible circle  of  hia  own  personal  interests.  All  his  thoughts 
are  withdrawn  from  his  country,  and  concentrated  on  his  con- 
sistency, his  firmness,  himself. 

5.  The  high,  the  exalted,  the  sublime  emotions  of  a  patriot- 
ism, which,  soaring  toward  heaven,  rises  far  above  all  mean,  low, 
or  selfish  things,  and  is  absorbed  by  one  soul-transporting 
thought  of  the  good  and  the  glory  of  one's  country,  are  never  felt 
in  his  impenetrable  bosom.  That  patriotism,  which,  catching  its 
inspirations  from  the  immortal  God,  and  leaving  at  an  im- 
measurable distance  below  all  lesser,  groveling,  personal  interests 
and  feelings,  animates  and  prompts  to  deeds  of  self-sacrifice,  of 
valor,  of  devotion,  and  of  death  itself, — that  is  public  virtue  ;  that 
is  the  noblest,  the  sublimcst,  of  all  public  virtues.        II.  Clay. 

Henry  Clay,  a  distinguished  statesman  of  the  United  States,  was  born  at  the 
Slavics,  Hanover  County,  Virginia,  on  the  12th  of  April,  1777.  His  father,  a 
clergyman,  died  in  17S1,  and  Henry  acquired  the  rudiments  of  an  education  at 
a  log  school-house.  At  an  early  age  he  became  clerk  of  the  Court  of  Chancery 
in  Richmond.  He  commenced  the  study  of  law  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  -was 
admitted  to  the  bar  at  the  close  of  one  year,  and  removed  to  Lexington,  Ky., 
where  he  practiced  his  profession  with  great  success.  In  ISOo  he  was  elected  to 
the  legislature  of  his  State,  and  in  1K)G  and  1S09,  was  appointed  to  fill  vacancies 
in  the  national  senate.  In  1811  he  was  chosen  a  member  of  the  House  of  Repre- 
sentatives, and  was  at  once  elected  speaker,  which  office  ho  retained  until  his 
appointment,  in  January,  1S14,  as  one  of  the  commissioners  to  negotiate  the 
Treaty  of  Ghent.  On  his  return  he  was  reelected  to  Congress;  and,  in  lv-  . 
was  again  elected  speaker  of  the  House.  During  the  presidency  of  John  Quiney 
Adams  he  was  secretary  of  state.  In  1831  he  was  elected  United  States  senator 
from  Kentucky,  and  was  soon  after  nominated  a  candidate  for  the  presidency, 
but  was  defeated.  In  1S36  he  was  reelected  to  the  United  States  Senate,  and 
6crved  until  1842.  In  1844  he  was  again  nominated  to  the  presidency,  and  again 
defeated.  He  was  returned  to  the  U.  S.  Senate  in  1849,  and  died  on  the  29th  of 
June,  1852.  He  was  ever  an  advocate  of  "  protection  to  American  industry  "  by 
a  sufficient  tariff,  and  of  "  internal  improvements."  He  was  in  favor  of  the  war  of 
1812,  of  the  recognition  of  the  South  American  republics,  and  of  the  independence 


3iS  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

of  Greece.  Some  of  his  noblest  oratorical  efforts  were  delivered  in  support  of 
these  measures.  His  speeches  are  sincere,  impassioned,  and  distinguished  for 
their  eminent  practicalness.  Full,  flowing,  sensuous,  his  style  of  oratory  was 
modulated  by  a  voice  of  sustained  sweetness  and  power,  and  a  heart  of  chivalrous 
courtcs}'.  His  Life  and  Speeches,  complied  and  edited  by  Mallory,  in  two  vol- 
umes, 8vo.,  appeared  in  1843;  and  his  "Life  and  Times,"  and  entire  works,  by 
Calvin  Colton,  have  since  been  published  in  New  York. 

VI. 

111.     WASHINGTON'S    SWORD  AND    FRANKLIN'S   STAFF o 

THE  sword  of  "Washington !  Tlio  staff  of  Franklin !  Oh,  Sir, 
what  associations  are  linked  in  adamant  with  these  names ! 
Washington,  whose  sword  was  never  drawn  but  in  the  cause  of 
his  country,  and  never  sheathed  when  wielded  in  his  country's 
cause  !  Franklin,  the  philosopher  of  the  thunderbolt,  the  print- 
ing-press, and  the  plowshare !  WTiat  names  are  these  in  the 
scanty  catalogue  of  the  benefactors  of  human  kind !  Washing- 
ton and  Franklin !  What  other  two  men,  whose  lives  belong  to 
the  eighteenth  century  of  Christendom,  have  left  a  deeper  im- 
pression of  themselves  upon  the  age  in  which  they  lived,  and 
upon  all  after-time  ? 

2.  Washington,  the  warrior  and  the  legislator !  In  war,  con- 
tending, by  the  wager  of  battle,  for  the  independence  of  his 
country,  and  for  the  freedom  of  the  human  race, — ever  manifest- 
ing, amidst  its  horrors,  by  precept  and  by  example,  his  reverence 
for  the  laws  of  peace,  and  for  the  tender  est  sympathies  of  hu- 
manity ;  in  peace,  soothing  the  ferocious  spirit  of  discord,  among 
his  own  countrymen,  into  harmony  and  union,  and  giving  to  that 
very  sword,  now  presented  to  his  country,  a  charm  more  potent 
than  that  attributed,  in  ancient  times,  to  the  lyre  of  Orpheus.' 

3.  Franklin !  The  mechanic  of  his  own  fortune  ;  teaching,  in 
early  youth,  under  the  shackles  of  indigence,  the  way  to  wealth, 
and,  in  the  shade  of  obscurity,  the  path  to  greatness  ;  in  the  ma- 
turity of  manhood,  disarming  the  thunder  of  its  terrors,  the  light- 

1  From  an  address  in  the  U.  S.  Presented  with  tho  lyre  of  Apollo, 

II.  R.,  on  the  reception  of  these  me-  and  instructed  by  the  Muses  in  its 

morials  by  Congress.  use,  he  enchanted  with  its  music  not 

8  Orpheus,  a  mythical  personage,  only  the  wild  beasts,  but  tho  trees 

was  regarded  by  the  Greeks  as  tho  and   rocks  upon  Olympus,  so  that 

most  celebrated  of  the  early  poets  they  moved  from  their  places  to  fcl- 

who  lived  before  the  time  of  Homer,  low  the  sound  of  his  golden  barp. 


WASHINGTON'S   SWORD   AND   FRANKLIN'S   STAFF.     o.|9 

ning  of  its  fatal  blast  ;  and  wresting  from  the  tyrant's  hand  the 
stiil  more  aillictivc  scepter  of  oppression  :  while  descending  into 
the  vale  of  years,  traversing  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  braving,  in  t 
dead  of  winter,  the  battle  and  the  breeze,  bearing  in  his  hand 
the  charter  of  Independence,  which  he  had  contributed  to  form, 
and  tendering,  froni  the  self-created  Nation  to  the  mightiest 
monarchs  of  Europe,  the  olive-branch  of  peace,  the  mercurial 
wand  of  commerce,  and  the  amulet  of  protection  and  safety  to 
the  man  of  peace,  on  the  pathless  ocean,  from  the  inexorable 
cruelty  and  merciless  rapacity  of  war. 

4.  And,  finally,  in  the  last  stage  of  life,  with  fourscore  winters 
upon  his  head,  under  the  torture  of  an  incurable  disease,  return- 
ing to  his  native  land,  closing  his  days  as  the  chief  magistrate  of 
his  adopted  commonwealth,  after  contributing  by  his  counsels, 
under  the  presidency  of  Washington,  and  recording  his  name, 
under  the  sanction  of  devout  prayer,  invoked  by  him  to  Gud,  to 
that  Constitution  under  the  authority  of  which  we  are  here  as- 
sembled, as  the  Representatives  of  the  North  American  People, 
to  receive,  in  their  name  and  for  them,  these  venerablo  relics  of 
the  wise,  the  valiant,  and  the  good  founders  of  our  great  con- 
federated Republic — these  sacred  symbols  of  our  golden  age. 

5.  May  they  be  deposited  among  the  archives '  of  our  govern- 
ment! And  may  every  American,  who  shall  hereafter  behold 
them,  ejaculate  a  mingled  offering  of  praise  to  that  Supreme 
Ruler  of  fho  Universe,  by  whose  tender  mercies  our  Union  has 
been  hitherto  preserved,  through  all  the  vicissitudes  and  revolu- 
tions of  this  turbulent  world  ;  and  of  prayer  for  the  continuan  -c 
of  these  blessings,  by  the  dispensations  of  Providence,  to  our  be- 
loved country,  from  age  to  age,  till  time  shall  be  no  more ! 

Adams. 

John  Qctnct  Adams,  a  distinguished  American  statesman  and  scholar,  son  of 
John  Adams,  the  second  president  of  the  United  States,  was  born  at  Brain: ree, 
Massachusetts,  on  the  11th  of  July,  1707.  He  was  cradled  in  the  Revolution, 
and  when  but  nine  years  old  heard  the  first  reading  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde- 
pendence from  the  old  State  House  in  Boston.  His  early  education  devolved 
principally  on  his  noble  and  accomplished  mother.  In  177S,  in  his  eleventh  year, 
he  accompanied  his  father  on  his  mission  to  France;  and  during  that  and  the 
following  year  he  was  at  school  in  Paris.  In  17S0  he  entered  the  public  school 
of  Amsterdam,  and  subsequently  the  University  of  Lcyden.  In  17S1  he  was 
made  private  secretary  to  the  Hon.  Francis  Dana,  Minister  to  Russia.      He 

1  Archives,  (hr  klvz),  public  records  and  papers  vruicli  are  preserved  as 
evidence  of  facts. 


350  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

joined  his  father  in  Holland  in  17S3,  and  returned  home  in  1785.  He  entered  an 
advanced  class  at  Harvard,  and  took  his  degree  in  1787,  the  year  after  his  ad- 
mission. In  1790  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  commenced  the  practice  of 
law  at  Boston,  which  he  continued,  varying  his  occupation  by  communications 
for  the  "  Centinel,"  signed  Publicola  and  Marcellus,  until  his  appointment  as 
Minister  to  the  Hague,  in  1794,  by  Washington.  He  was  elected  to  the  State 
Senate  in  1801,  and  in  1803  a  member  of  the  Senate  of  the  United  States,  and  sat 
until  1808.  He  had  previously,  in  180G,  been  appointed  professor  of  rhetoric  in 
Harvard,  and  continued  the  discharge  of  his  duties  until  his  resignation,  in  1809, 
to  accept  the  mission  to  Russia,  offered  him  by  Madison.  He  published  his  col- 
lege lectures,  in  two  octavo  volumes,  in  1810.  He  was  called  from  his  brilliant 
Russian  diplomatic  career  in  1S15,  to  aid  in  negotiating  the  treaty  of  peace  with 
England  at  Ghent,  and  was  appointed  minister  to  that  country  in  the  same  year. 
In  1817  he  returned  home,  was  appointed  secretary  of  state  by  Monroe,  and  re- 
mained in  that  office  eight  years,  when  he  was  himself  chosen  to  the  presidency. 
He  remained  in  office  one  term,  and  was  immediately  after  elected  a  member 
of  the  House  of  Representatives  from  his  native  State,  a  position  which  he  retain- 
ed till  his  death.  In  the  sixty-fifth  year  of  active  public  service,  he  died  in  the 
capitol  at  Washington — in  the  scene  of  his  chief  triumphs — suddenly,  on  the  23d 
of  February,  1S48.  His  last  words  were,  "  Tins  is  the  end  of  earth— I  am  con- 
tent." Through  his  long  and  active  political  career,  Mr.  Adams  retained  a 
fondness  for  literature.  He  was,  altogether,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  of 
this  century.  His  various  and  voluminous  works  exhibit  a  marked  nationality, 
and  a  wisdom  which  astonishes  by  its  universality  and  profoundness. 


SECTION   XX. 
I 

112.     PROCRASTINATION. 

BE  wise  to-day  ;  'tis  madness  to  defer ; 
Next  day  the  fatal  pree'edent 1  will  plead  ; 
Thus  on,  tiU  wisdom  is  pushed  out  of  life. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time  ; 
Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled, 
And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 
The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 
If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange? 
That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 

2.  Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes  this  bears 
The  palm,  "  that  all  men  are  about  to  live," 
Forever  on  the  brink  of  being  born  ; 

1  Prec'  e  dent,  something  done  or  said  that  may  serve  as  an  example  to 
authorize  an  after  act  of  the  like  kind  ;  authoritutivc  example. 


PROCRASTINATION.  351 

All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 

They  one  day  shall  not  drivel,  and  their  pride 

On  this  reversion  '  takes  up  ready  praise  ; 

At  least  their  own  ;  their  future  selves  applaud  ; 

How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead! 

Time  lodged  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly's  vails ;  * 

That  lodged  in  Fate's  to  wisdom  they  consign  ; 

The  thing  they  can't 3  but  purpose,  they  postpone. 

'Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool, 

And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

3.  All  promise  is  poor  dilatory 4  man, 

And  that  through  every  stage.     ^Yhen  young  indeed, 

In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  rest, 

Unanxious  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish, 

As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 

At  thirty  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 

Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan  ; 

At  fifty  chides  his  in'fanious  delay, 

Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve  ; 

In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought, 

Resolves,  and  re-resolves  ;  then  dies  the  same. 

4.  And  why  ?  because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves  ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fato 
Strikes  through  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread  ; 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 

Soon  close  ;  where  past  the  shaft  no  trace  is  found, 

As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 

The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from,  the  keel, 

So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death  ; 

E'en  with  the  tender  tear  which  nature  sheds 

O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave.      Young. 

Edward  You>"o",  author  of  the  "  Night  Thoughts,"  was  born  at  his  father's 
parsonage,  in  Hampshire,  England,  in  1G81.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester 
School,  and  at  All  Souls  College,  Oxford.  In  1712  he  commenced  public  life  as 
a  courtier  and  poet,  and  continued  both  characters  till  he  was  past  eighty. 

m  l  Re  ver'  sion,  a  right  to  future         3  Can't,  (kant\ 
possession  or  enjoyment ;  benefit  to        4  Dil'  a  to  ry,  inclined  to  defer  or 

be  received  from  some  future  event,  put  off  what  ought  to  be  done  at 

3  Vails,  avails ;  unexpected  gains,  once ;  delaying. 


352  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

From  170S  he  held  a  fellowship  at  Oxford.  In  1730  his  college  presented  him  to 
the  rectory  of  Wclwyn,  in  Hertfordshire,  valued  ai  £300  a  year.  In  17C1  he 
married  a  widow,  the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Lichfield,  which  proved  a  happy 
union.  Lady  Elizabeth  Young  died  in  1741 ;  and  her  husband  is  supposed  to 
have  begun  soon  afterward  the  composition  or  the  "  Night  Thoughts."  Of  his 
numerous  works  published  previous  to  this  period,  the  best  arc  his  satires,  which 
were  collected  in  1728,  under  the  title  of  "  The  Love  of  Fame  the  Universal 
Passion,"  and  "  The  Revenge,"  a  tragedy,  which  appeared  in  1721.  Sixty 
years  of  labor  and  industry  had  strengthened  and  enriched  his  genius,  and  aug- 
mented the  brilliancy  of  his  fancy,  preparatory  to  writing  "Night  Thoughts." 
The  publication  of  this  poem,  taking  place  in  sections,  was  completed  in  1710. 
It  is  written  in  a  highly  artificial  style,  and  has  more  of  epigrammatic  point  than 
any  other  work  in  the  language.  Though  often  brilliant  at  the  expense  of  higher 
and  more  important  qualities,  the  poet  introduces  many  noble  and  sublime  pas- 
pages,  and  enforces  the  truths  of  religion  with  a  commanding  energy  and  per- 
suasion. The  fertility  of  his  fancy,  the  pregnancy  ot  his  wit  and  knowledge,  the 
striking  and  felicitous  combinations  everywhere  presented,  are  truly  remarkable. 
Young  died  in  April,  1765,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-four. 

n. 

113.     PAUL    FLEMMING    RESOLVES. 

AND  now  tho  sun  was  growing  liigh  and  warm.  A  little 
chapel,  whose  door  stood  open,  seemed  to  invite  Flemming 
to  enter  and  enjoy  the  grateful  coolness.  He  went  in.  There 
was  no  one  there.  The  walls  were  covered  with  paintings  and 
sculpture  of  the  rudest  kind,  and  with  a  few  funeral  tablets. 
There  was  nothing  there  to  move  the  heart  to  devotion  ;  but  in 
that  hour  tho  heart  of  Flemming  was  weak, — weak  as  a  child's. 
He  bowed  his  stubborn  knees  and  wept.  And  oh !  how  many 
disappointed  hopes,  how  many  bitter  recollections,  how  much  of 
wounded  pride,  and  unrequited  love,  were  in  those  tears,  through 
which  he  read  on  a  marble  tablet  in  the  chapel  wall  opposite, 
this  singular  inscription  :  "Look  not  mournfully  into  the  tast  : 
It  comjls  not  back  again.  Wisely  improve  the  present  :  It  is 
thine.     Go  FoRTH  to  meet  the  shadowy  future,  without  teak, 

AND  WITH  A  MANET  HEART." 

2.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  tho  unknown  tenant  of  that  grave 
had  opened  his  lips  of  dust,  and  spoken  to  him  the  words  of  con- 
solation, which  his  soul  needed,  and  which  no  friend  had  yet 
spoken.  In  a  moment  the  anguish  of  his  thoughts  was  still. 
Tho  stone  was  rolled  away  from  the  door  of  his  heart ;  death, 
was  no  longer  there,  but  an  angel  clothed  in  white.  He  stood 
up,  and  his  eyes  were  no  more  bleared  with  tears  ;  and,  looking 
into  the  bright,  morning  heaven,  he  said,  "I  well  SB  stbojmjI" 


PAUL  FLEMMINQ  RESOLVES.  3.;:; 

3.  Men  sometimes  go  down  into  tombs,  with  painful  longings 
to  behold  once  more  the  faces  of  their  departed  friends  ;  and  as 
they  gaze  upon  them,  lying  there  so  peacefully  with  the  sem- 
blance that  they  wore  on  earth,  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
touches  them,  and  the  features  crumble  and  fall  together,  and 
are  but  dust.  So  did  his  soul  then  descend  for  the  last  time 
into  the  great  tomb  of  the  past,  with  painful  longings  to  behold 
once  more  the  dear  faces  of  those  he  had  loved  ;  and  the  sweet 
breath  of  heaven  touched  them,  and  they  would  not  stay,  but 
crumbled  away  and  perished  as  he  gazed.  They,  too,  were  dust. 
And  thus,  far-sounding,  he  heard  the  great  gate  of  the  past  shut 
behind  him  as  the  divine  poet  did  the  gate  of  paradise,  when 
the  angel  pointed  him  the  way  up  the  holy  mountain  ;  and  to 
him  likewise  was  it  forbidden  to  look  back. 

4.  In  the  life  of  every  man,  there  are  sudden  transitions  of 
feeling,  which  seem  almost  miraculous.  At  once,  as  if  seme 
magician  had  touched  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  the  dark  clouds 
melt  into  the  air,  the  wind  falls,  and  serenity  succeeds  the  storm. 
The  causes  which  produce  these  sudden  changes  may  have  been 
long  at  work  within  us,  but  the  changes  themselves  are  instan- 
taneous, and  apparently  without  sufficient  cause.  It  was  so  with 
Flemming,  and  from  that  hour  forth  he  resolved  that  he  would 
no  longer  veer  with  every  shifting  wind  of  circumstance  ;  no 
longer  be  a  child's  plaything  in  the  hands  of  fate,  which  we  our- 
selves do  make  or  mar.  He  resolved  henceforward  not  to  lean 
on  others  ;  but  to  walk  self-confident  and  self-possessed  :  no 
longer  to  waste  his  years  in  vain  regrets,  nor  wait  the  fulfilment 
of  boundless  hopes  and  indiscreet  desires  ;  but  to  live  in  the 
present  wisely,  alike  forgetful  of  the  past,  and  careless  of  what 
the  mysterious  future  might  bring.  And  from  that  moment  he 
was  calm,  and  strong  ;  he  was  reconciled  with  himself ! 

5.  His  thoughts"  turned  to  his  distant  home  bevond  the  sea. 
An  indescribable,  sweet  feeling  rose  within  him.  "  Thither  will 
I  turn  ray  wandering  footsteps/'  said  he  ;  "  and  be  a  man  among 
men,  and  no  longer  a  dreamer  among  shadows.  Henceforth  be 
mine  a  life  of  action  and  reality !  I  will  work  in  my  own  sphere 
nor  wish  it  other  than  it  is.  This  alone  is  health  and  happiness. 
This  alone  is  life — 

4  Life  that  shall  send 
A  challenge  to  its  end, 
And  when  it  comes,  say,  Welcome,  friend  !' 


354:  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

6.  "  Why  have  I  not  made  these  sage  reflections,  this  wise 

resolve,  sooner  ?  Can  such  a  simple  result  spring  only  from  the 

long  and  intricate  process  of  experience?    Alas!  it  is  not  till 

time,  with  reckless  hand,  has  torn  out  half  the  leaves  from  the 

book  of  human  life,  to  light  the  fires  of  passion  with,  from  day 

to  day,  that  man  begins  to  see  that  the  leaves  which  remain  are 

few  in  number,  and  to  remember,  faintly  at  first,  and  then  more 

clearly,  that  upon  the  earlier  pages  of  that  book  was  written  a 

story  of  happy  innocence,  which  ho  would  fain  read  over  again. 

Then  come  listless  irresolution,  and  the  inevitable  inaction  of 

despair  ;  or  else  the  firm  resolve  to  record  upon  the  leaves  that 

still  remain,  a  mere  noble  history  than  the  child's  story,  with 

which  the  book  began.  Longfellow. 

Henry  Wadswortii  Longfellow  was  born  in  the  city  of  Portland,  Maine, 
on  the  27th  of  February,  1807.  He  entered  Bowdoin  College  at  fourteen,  and 
graduated  in  due  course.  He  soon  after  commenced  the  study  of  law,  in  tho 
office  of  his  father,  the  Hon.  Stephen  Longfellow,  but  being  appointed  pro- 
fessor of  modern  languages  at  Bowdoin,  in  1S26,  he  sailed  for  Europe  to  prepare 
himself  for  the  duties  of  his  office,  where  he  passed  three  years  and  a  half.  On 
his  return,  he  entered  upon  the  labors  of  instruction.  Mr.  Longfellow  being 
elected  professor  of  modern  languages  and  literature  in  Harvard  College,  in 
1835,  resigned  his  place  in  Brunswick,  and  went  a  second  time  to  Europe,  to 
make  himself  better  acquainted  with  the  subjects  of  his  studies  in  Denmark, 
Sweden,  and  Germany.  On  his  return  home,  in  1836,  he  immediately  entered 
upon  his  labors  at  Cambridge,  where  he  has  since  resided.  In  1854  he  resigned 
his  professorship  at  Harvard.  His  earliest  poems  were  written  for  "  The  United 
States  Gazette,"  printed  in  Boston,  while  he  was  an  undcr-graduate,  from  which 
period  he  has  been  recognized  as  among  the  first  writers  of  prose  and  verse  of 
the  nineteenth  century.  During  his  subsequent  residence  at  Brunswick,  ho 
wrote  several  elegant  and  very  able  papers  for  the  "North  American  Review," 
translated  "  Coplas  de  Manrique,"  and  published  "  Outre  Mer,"  a  collection  of 
agreeable  tales  and  sketches,  chiefly  written  during  his  first  residence  abroad. 
"Hyperion,"  a  romance,  appeared  in  1S39,  and  "Kavanagh,"  another,  prose 
work,  in  1848.  The  first  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  in  1839,  entitled 
"Voices  of  the  Night."  His  "Ballads  and  other  Poems"  followed  in  1841; 
" The  Spanish  Student,"  a  play,  in  1843;  "Poems  on  Slavery,"  in  1844 ;  "The 
Belfry  of  Bruges,  and  other  Poems,"  in  1845;  "  Evangeline,  a  Talc  of  Arcadie," 
in  1847 ;  "  The  Sea  and  Fireside,"  in  1849 ;  "  The  Golden  Legend,"  in  1S51 ; 
"  Hiawatha,"  in  1855 ;  and  "  Tales  of  a  Wayside  Inn,"  in  1863.  In  1845 ;  he  pub- 
lished "The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Europe,"  the  most  complete  and  satisfactory 
work  of  the  kind  that  has  ever  appeared  in  any  language.  "  The  Skeleton  in 
Armor  "  is  one  of  the  longest  and  most  unique  of  his  original  poems.  "  Hiawatha," 
his  longest  poem,  which  is  purely  original  and  American,  has  been  republished 
in  England,  and  has  met  with  a  popularity,  both  in  Europe  and  America,  not 
surpassed  by  any  poem  of  the  present  century.  The  high  finish,  gracefulness, 
and  vivid  beauty  of  his  style,  and  the  moral  purity  and  earnest  humanity  por- 
trayed in  his  verse,  excite  the  sympathy  and  reach  the  heart  of  the  public. 


ODE    TO    ADVERSITY.  355 

rn. 

114.     ODE    TO    ADVERSITY. 

DAUGHTER  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
"Whoso  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best ! 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain, 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain  ; 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 

2.  "When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designed, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth, 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern,  rugged  nurse !  thy  rigid  lore 
"With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore : 
"What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know, 
And  from  her  own  she  learned  to  melt  at  others'  woe. 

3.  Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 

Self-pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 
"Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe  : 
By  vain  Prosperity  received, 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believed. 

4.  "Wisdom  in  sable  garb  arrayed, 

Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound, 
And  Mel'ancholy,  silent  maid, 

With  leaden  eye  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  : 
"Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend, 
With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  Pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly -pleasing  tear. 

5.  Oh !  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head, 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chasfrning  hand ! 


35Q  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER 

Not  in  thy  Gorgon '  terrors  clad, 

Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  iin'pious  thou  art  seen), 
With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien, 
"With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty. 

6.  Thy  form  benign,2  O  goddess,  wear, 
Thy  milder  influence  impart ; 

Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound,3  my  heart. 

The  generous  spark  extinct  revive  ; 

Teach  me  to  love,  and  to  forgive  ; 

Exact,  my  own  defects  to  scan  ; 
WThat  others  are,  to  feel ;  and  know  myself  a  man. 

Gray. 
TnoMAS  Gray  was  born  in  London  in  1710.  He  was  educated  at  Eton  and 
Cambridge.  When  his  college  education  "was  completed,  Horace  Walpole  in- 
duced him  to  accompany  him  in  a  tour  through  France  and  Italy ;  but  a  misun- 
derstanding taking  place,  Gray  returned  to  England  in  1741.  His  father  being 
dead,  he  went  to  Cambridge  to  take  his  degree  in  civil  law,  though  he  was  pos- 
sessed of  sufficient  means  to  enable  him  to  dispense  with  the  labor  of  his  pro- 
fession. He  settled  himself  at  Cambridge  for  the  remainder  of  his  days,  only 
leaving  home  when  he  made  tours  to  Wales,  Scotland,  and  the  lakes  of  West- 
moreland, and  when  he  passed  three  years  in  London  for  access  to  the  library 
of  the  British  Museum.  His  life  thenceforth  was  that  of  a  scholar.  His  "Ode 
to  Eton  College,"  published  in  1747,  attracted  little  notice ;  but  the  "  Elegy  in  a 
Country  Church-yard,"  which  appeared  in  1749,  became  at  once,  as  it  will  always 
continue  to  be,  one  of  the  most  popular  of  all  poems.  Most  of  his  odes  were 
written  In  the  course  of  three  years  following  1753;  and  the  publication  of  the 
collection  in  1757  fully  established  his  reputation.  His  poems,  flowing  from  an  in- 
tense, though  not  fertile  imagination,  inspired  by  the  most  delicate  poetic  feeling, 
and  elaborated  into  exquisite  terseness  of  diction,  are  among  the  most  splendid 
ornaments  of  English  literature.  His  "Letters,"  published  after  his  death,  are 
admirable  specimens  of  English  style,  full  of  quiet  humor,  astute,  though  fas- 
tidious criticism,  and  containing  some  of  the  most  picturesque  pieces  of  de- 
scriptive composition  in  the  language.  He  became  professor  of  modern  history 
at  Cambridge,  in  1708.     He  died  by  a  severe  attack  of  the  gout  in  1771. 

1  Gorgon,  the  Gorgons,  in  heathen  Euryalo,  and  Medusa.     The  head  of 

mythology,   were    frightful  beings,  the  latter  was  so  frightful  that  every 

that  had  hissing  serpents  instead  of  one  who  looked  at  it  was  changed 

hair  upon  their  heads  ;  and  they  had  into  stone, 

wings,  brazen  claws,  and  enormous  2  Be  nlgn',  gracious  ;  kind, 

teeth.    Their  names  were  Sthcno,  3  Wound,  (wond). 


urn  357 

IV. 

115.     LIFE. 

"  ~\  /TAN,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  "is  a  noble  animal!  splen- 
_LVJL  did  in  ashes,  glorious  in  the  grave  ;  solemnizing  nativities 
and  funerals  with  equal  luster,  and  not  forgetting  ceremonies  of 
bravery  in  the  infamy  of  his  nature  I"  Thus  spake  one  who 
mocked  while  he  wept  at  man's  estate,  and  gracefully  tempered 
the  higli  seonmgs  of  philosophy  with  the  profound  compassion 
of  religion.  As  the  sun's  proudest  moment  is  his  latest,  and  as 
the  forest  puts  on  its  brightest  robe  to  die  in,  so  does  man  sum- 
mon ostentation  to  invest  the  hour  of  his  weakness,  and  prido 
survives  when  power  has  departed  ;  and  what,  we  ma}'  ask,  does 
this  instinctive  contempt  for  the  honors  of  the  dead  proclaim, 
except  the  utter  vanity  of  the  glories  of  the  living? — for  mean 
indeed  must  be  the  real  state  of  man,  and  false  the  vast  assump- 
tions of  his  life,  when  the  poorest  pageantry  of  a  decent  burial 
strikes  upon  the  heart  as  a  mockery  of  helplessness. 

2.  Certain  it  is  that  pomp  chielly  waits  upon  the  beginning 
and  the  end  of  life  :  what  lies  between,  may  either  raise  a  sigh 
or  wake  a  laugh,  for  it  mostly  partakes  of  the  littleness  of  one 
and  the  sadness  of  the  other.  The  monuments  of  man's  blessed- 
ness and  of  man's  wretchedness  lie  side  by  side  :  we  can  not 
look  for  the  one  without  discovering  the  other.  The  echo  of 
joy  is  the  moan  of  despair,  and  the  cry  of  anguish  is  stilled  in 
rejoicing.  To  make  a  monarch,  there  must  be  slaves  ;  and  that 
one  may  triumph,  many  must  be  weak. 

3.  To  one  limiting  his  belief  within  the  bounds  of  his  observa- 
tion, and  "  reasoning"  but  from  what  he  "  knows,"  the  condition 
of  man  presents  mysteries  which  thought  can  not  explain.  The 
dignity  and  the  destiny  of  man  seem  utterly  at  variance.  He 
turns  from  contem'plating  a  monument  of  genius  to  inquire  for 
the  genius  which  produced  it,  and  finds  that  while  the  work  has 
survived,  the  workman  has  perished  for  ages.  The  meanest 
work  of  man  outlives  the  noblest  work  of  God.  The  sculptures 
of  Phidias  endure,  where  the  dust  of  the  artist  has  vanished  from 
the  earth.     Man  can  immortalize  all  things  but  himself. 

4.  But,  for  my  own  part,  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  our 
high  estimation  of  ourselves  is  the  grand  error  in  our  account. 
Surely,  it  is  argued,  a  creature  so  ingeniously  (in  jen'  yus  li)  fash- 


358  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

ioned  and  so  bountifully  furnished,  lias  not  been  created  but  for 
lofty  ends.  But  cast  your  eye  on  the  humblest  rose  of  the  gar- 
den, and  it  may  teach  a  wiser  lesson.  There  you  behold  con- 
trivance and  ornament — in  every  leaf  the  finest  veins,  the  most 
delicate  odor,  and  a  per'fume  ex'quisite  beyond  imitation  ;  yet 
all  this  is  but  a  toy — a  plaything  of  nature  ;  and  surely  she 
whose  resources  are  so  boundless  that  upon  the  gaud  of  a  sum- 
mer day  she  can  throw  away  such  lavish  wealth,  steps  not  beyond 
her  commonest  toil  when  she  forms  of  the  dust  a  living  man. 
When  will  man  learn  the  lesson  of  his  own  insignificance  ? 

5.  Immortal  man !  thy  blood  flows  freely  and  fully,  and  thou 
standest  a  Napoleon  ;  thou  reclinest  a  Shakspeare ! — it  quickens 
its  movement,  and  thou  liest  a  parched  and  fretful  thing,  with 
thy  mind  furied  by  the  phantoms  of  fever ! — it  retards  its  action 
but  a  little,  and  thou  crawlest  a  crouching,  soulless  mass,  the 
bright  world  a  blank,  dead  vision  to  thine  eye.  Verily,  O  man, 
thou  art  a  glorious  and  godlike  being ! 

6.  Tell  life's  proudest  tale  :  what  is  it  ?  A  few  attempts  suc- 
cessless ;  a  few  crushed  or  moldered  hopes  ;  much  paltry  fret- 
ting ;  a  little  sleep,  and  the  story  is  concluded  ;  the  curtain  falla 
— the  farce  is  over.  The  world  is  not  a  place  to  live  in,  but  to 
die  in.  It  is  a  house  that  has  but  two  chambers  ;  a  lazar  and  a 
charnel — room  only  for  the  dying  and  the  dead.  There  is  not 
a  spot  on  the  broad  earth  on  which  man  can  plant  his  foot  and 
affirm  with  confidence,  "  No  mortal  sleeps  beneath !" 

7.  Seeing  then  that  these  things  are,  what  shall  we  say  ?  Shall 
we  exclaim  with  the  gay-hearted  Grecian,  "  Drink  to-day,  for  to- 
morrow we  are  not  ?"  Shall  we  calmly  float  down  the  current, 
smiling  if  wo  can,  silent  when  we  must,  lulling  cares  to  sleep  by 
the  music  of  gentle  enjoyment,  and  passing  dream-like  through 
a  land  of  dreams  ?  No !  dream-like  as  is  our  life,  there  is  in  it 
one  reality— our  duty.  Let  us  cling  to  that,  and  distress  may 
overwhelm,  but  can  not  disturb  us — may  destroy,  but  can  not 
hurt  us  :  the  bitterness  of  earthly  things  and  the  shortness  of 
earthly  life  will  cease  to  be  evils,  and  begin  to  be  blessings. 

Wallace. 
Horace  Binney  Wallace  was  born  in  Philadelphia  on  the  2Gth  of  February, 
1817.  He  passed  the  first  two  years  of  his  collegiate  course  at  the  University  of 
Pennsylvania,  and  the  residue  at  Princeton  College,  where  lie  was  graduated  in 
1835.  ne  studied  law  with  great  thoroughness,  and  at  the  age  of  twenty-seven, 
prepared  notes,  that  have  been  commended  by  the  highest  legal  authorities, /or 
"Smith's  Selections  of  Leading  Cases  in  various  Branches  of  the  Law,"  aud 


BLENNERHASSETT'S    TEMPTATION.  359 

"White  and  Tudor' s  Selection  of  Leading  Cases  in  Equity."  He  also  devote-d 
much  time  to  scientific  study;  produced  "Stanley,"  a  novel;  and  published  a 
number  of  articles  anonymously  in  various  periodicals.  He  sailed  for  Europe  in 
April,  1K49,  and  passed  a  year  in  England,  Germany,  France,  and  Italy.  On  his 
return  he  resumed  with  increased  energy,  his  literary  pursuits.  His  eye-sight 
became  impaired  in  the  spring  of  1352,  owing  to  the  incipient  stages  of  conges- 
tion of  the  brain,  caused  by  undue  mental  exertion.  By  the  advice  of  physicians, 
he  embarked  for  England  In  November.  Finding  no  improvement  in  his  condi- 
tion, on  his  arrival,  he  went  to  Paris  for  medical  advice,  where  his  cerebral  dis- 
ease increased,  and  led  to  his  death  suddenly,  on  the  16th  of  December  following. 
In  1S55  appeared  in  Philadelphia  a  volume  of  his  writings,  entitled  "Art,  Scenery, 
and  Philosophy  in  Europe."  These  essays  on  the  principles  of  art,  descriptions 
of  cathedrals,  traveling  sketches,  and  papers  on  distinguished  artists,  though 
not  designed  for  publication,  and  mostly  in  an  unfinished  state,  display  great 
depth  of  thought,  command  of  language,  knowledge  of  the  history  and  aesthetic 
principles  of  art,  and  a  finely  cultivated  taste.  A  second  volume  of  his  writings, 
u Literary  Criticisms  and  other  Papers,"  appeared  in  185G.  These  two  works 
form  but  a  small  part  of  Mr.  Wallace's  literary  productions. 


SECTION    XXI. 
I. 

116.     BLENNERHASSETT'S    TEMPTATION. 

A  PLAIN  man,  who  knew  nothing-  of  the  curious  transmuta- 
tions '  which  the  wit  of  man  can  work,  would  be  very  apt 
to  wonder  by  what  kind  of  legerdemain2  Aaron  Burr3  had  con- 
trived to  shuffle  himself  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  pack,  as  an 
ac'cessory,  and  turn  up  poor  Blennerhasset  as  principal,  in  this 
treason.  "Who,  then,  is  Aaron  Burr,  and  what  the  part  which 
he  has  borne  in  this  transaction  ?  He  is  its  author,  its  projector, 
its  active  ex'eciiter.  Bold,  ardent,  restless,  and  aspiring,  his 
brain  conceived  it,  his  hand  brought  it  into  action. 

1  Trans^  mu  ta'tion,  a  change  into  he   was   made   attorney-general    in 

another  substance  or  form.  1789.     lie  was  a  member  of  the  Uni- 

5  Legyer  demain',  sleight  of  hand;  ted  States  Senate  from  1791  to  1797, 

an  artful  trick.  and   the  leader  of    the   republican 

3  Aaron  Burr  was  born  in  Newark,  party.     He  was  made  vice-president 

N.  J.,  February  5, 1750.    His  military  in  1800  ;  killed  Alexander  Hamilton 

talents  secured  for  him  the  high  po-  in  a  duel  in  1804  ;  was  tried  on  a 

sition  of  lieutenant-colonel   in    the  charge  of  treasonable  designs  against 

army  of  the  Revolution  ;  after  which  Mexico,  at  Richmond,  Va.,  in  1807,  of 

he  acquired  a  prominent  position  as  which  he  was  finally  acquitted :  and 

a  great  lawyer  in  New  York,  where  died  on  Staten  Island,  Sept.  14,1696. 


360  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  Who  is  Blennerhasset  ?  A  native  of  Ireland,  a  man  of 
letters,  who  fled  from  the  storms  of  his  own  country,  to  find 
quiet  in  ours.  On  his  arrival  in  America,  he  retired,  even  from 
the  population  of  the  Atlantic  States,  and  sought  quiet  and  soli- 
tude in  the  bosom  of  our  western  forests.  But  he  brought  with 
him  taste,  and  science,  and  wealth  ;  and  "lo,  the  desert  smiled !" 
Possessing  himself  of  a  beautiful  island  in  the  Ohio,  he  rears 
upon  it  a  palace,  and  decorates  it  with  every  romantic  embel- 
lishment of  fane}'.  A  shrubbery  that  Shenstone '  might  have 
envied,  blooms  around  him.  Music  that  might  have  charmed 
Calypso 3  and  her  nymphs,  is  his.  An  extensive  library  spreads 
its  treasures  before  him.  A  philosophical  apparatus  oners  to 
him  all  the  secrets  and  mysteries  of  nature.  Peace,  tranquillity," 
and  innocence,  shed  their  mingled  delights  around  him.  And, 
to  crown  the  enchantment  of  the  scene,  a  wife,  who  is  said  to  be 
lovely  even  beyond  her  sex,  and  graced  with  every  accomplish- 
ment that  can  render  it  irresistible,  had  blessed  him  with  her 
love,  and  made  him  the  father  of  several  children. 

3.  The  evidence  would  convince  you,  Sir,  that  this  is  but  a 
faint  picture  of  the  real  life.  In  the  midst  of  all  this  peace,  this 
innocence,  and  this  tranquillity, — this  feast  of  the  mind,  this 
pure  banquet  (bangk'wet)  of  the  heart, — the  destroyer  comes. 
He  comes  to  turn  this  paradise  into  a  hell.  Yet  the  flowers  do 
not  wither  at  his  approach,  and  no  monitory  shuddering  through 
the  bosom  of  their  unfortunate  possessor  warns  him  of  the  ruin 
that  is  coming  upon  him.  A  stranger  presents  himself.  It  is 
Aaron  Burr.  Introduced  to  their  civilities  by  the  high  rank 
which  he  had  lately  held  in  his  country,  he  soon  finds  his  way 
to  their  hearts,  by  the  dignity  and  elegance  of  his  demeanor, 
the  light  and  beauty  of  his  conversation,  and  the  seductive  and 
fascinating  power  of  his  address. 

•  4.  The  conquest  (kongk'west)  was  not  difficult.  Innocence  is 
ever  simple  and  credulous.  Conscious  of  no  designs  itself,  it 
suspects  none  in  others.  It  wears  no  guards  before  its  breast. 
Every  door  and  portal  and  avenue  of  the  heart  is  thrown  open, 
and  all  who  choose  it  enter.    Such  was  the  state  of  Eden  when 


1  William  Shenstone,  a  pleasing  1714,  and  died  in  17G3. 

writer  both  of  prose  and  verse,  noted  3  Ca  lyp'  so,  a  fabled  nymph,  who 

for  his  taste  in  landscape-garden ing,  inhabited  the  island  of  Ogygia,  on 

was  born  in  Shropshire,  England,  in  which  Ulysses  was  shipwreeked. 


BLENNERHASSETT'S    TEMPTATION.  301 

the  scrpont  entered  its  bowers !  The  prisoner,  in  a  more  en- 
gaging form,  winding  himself  into  the  open  andunpracticed  heart 
of  the  unfortunate  Blennerhasset,  found  but  little  difficulty  in 
changing  the  native  character  of  that  heart,  and  the  objects  of 
its  affections.  By  degrees  he  infuses  into  it  the  poison  of  his 
own  ambition.  He  breathes  into  it  the  fire  of  his  own  courage  ; 
—a  daring  and  desperate  thirst  for  glory  ;  an  ardor,  panting  for 
all  the  storm,  and  bustle,  and  hurricane  of  life. 

5.  In  a  short  time,  the  whole  man  is  changed  and  every  object 
of  his  former  delight  relinquished.  No  more  he  enjoys  the  tran- 
quil scene  :  it  has  become  flat  and  insipid  to  his  taste.  His  books 
arc  abandoned.  His  retort  and  crucible  arc  thrown  aside.  His 
shrubbery  blooms  and  breathes  its  fragrance  upon  the  air  in  vain 
— he  likes  it  not.  His  car  no  longer  drinks  the  rich  melody  of 
music  :  it  longs  for  the  trumpet's  clangor,  and  the  cannon's  roar. 
Even  the  prattle  of  his  babes,  once  so  sweet,  no  longer  affects 
him  ;  and  the  angel  smile  of  his  wife,  which  hitherto  touched 
his  bosom  with  ccstacy  so  unspeakable,  is  now  unfelt  and  unseen. 
Greater  objects  have  taken  possession  of  his  soul. 

G.  His  imagination  has  been  dazzled  by  visions  of  diadems,  and 
stars,  and  garters,  and  titles  of  nobility.  He  has  been  taught  to 
burn  with  restless  emulation  at  the  names  of  great  heroes  and 
conquerors, — of  Cromwell,1  and  Caesar,  and  Bonaparte.  His 
enchanted  island  is  destined  soon  to  relapse  into  a  wilderness  ; 
and,  in  a  few  months,  Ave  find  the  tender  and  beautiful  partner 
of  his  bosom,  whom  he  lately  "  permitted  not  the  winds "  of 
summer  "  to  visit  too  roughly," — wo  find  her  shivering,  at  mid- 
night, on  the  wintry  banks  of  the  Ohio,  and  mingling  her  tears 
with  the  torrents  that  froze  as  they  fell. 

7.  Yet  this  unfortunate  man,  thus  deluded  from  his  interest 
and  his  happiness — thus  seduced  from  the  paths  of  innocence 
and  peace — thus  confounded  in  the  toils  which  were  deliberately 
spread  for  him,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  mastering  spirit  and 
genius  of  another, — this  man,  thus  rained  and  undone,  and  made 
to  play  a  subordinate  part  in  this  grand  drama  of  guilt  and 
treason — this  man  is  to  be  called  the  principal  offender  ;  while 
he,  by  whom  he  was  thus  plunged  in  misery,  i3  comparatively 
innocent,  a  mere  ae'ecssory !     Is  this  reason  ?     Is  it  law  ?     Is  it 

1  Oliver  Cromwell,  a  groat  warrior  arid  statesman,  Lord  Protector  of 
England,  born  April,  1599,  and  died  September,  1659, 

10 


302  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

humanity?  Sir,  neither  the  human  heart  nor  the  human  un- 
derstanding will  bear  a  perversion  so  monstrous  and  absurd  ;  so 
shocking  to  the  soul ;  so  revolting  to  reason !  Wikt. 

William  "Wirt,  an  able  American  lawyer  and  miscellaneous  writer,  was  born 
in  Bladensburg,  Maryland,  November  8th,  1772.  He  was  a  private  tutor  at  fifteen ; 
6tudied  law;  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  in  his  twentieth  year;  removed  to  Rich- 
mond, Virginia,  where  he  met  with  eminent  success  in  his  profession,  and  became 
chancellor  and  district-attorney.  In  1817,  in  the  presidency  of  Monroe,  he  be- 
came attorney-general  of  the  United  States,  an  office  which  he  held  for  twelve 
years.  His  defense  of  Blennerhasset,  in  the  famous  trial  of  Aaron  Burr  for  trea- 
son, in  1S07,  from  which  the  above  extract  is  taken,  won  for  him  a  great  reputa- 
tion for  fervid  eloquence.  On  his  retirement  from  office,  in  1859,  he  took  up  his 
permanent  residence  at  Baltimore,  where  he  became  actively  engaged  in  the 
practice  of  the  law.  He  was  the  author  of  the  "Old  Bachelor,"  "The  British 
Spy,"  "Life  of  Patrick  Henry,"  etc.    He  died  February  18, 1834. 

II. 

117.  ROGER  ASCHAM1  AND  LADY  JANE  GREY.* 

ASCHAM.  Thou  art  going,  my  dear  young  lady,  into  a  most 
awful  state  ;  thou  art  passing  into  matrimony  and  great 
wealth.  God  hath  willed  it :  submit  in  thankfulness.  Thy  affec- 
tions are  rightly  placed  and  well  distributed.  Love  is  a  secon- 
dary passion  in  those  who  love  most,  a  primary  in  those  who  love 
least.  He  who  is  inspired  by  it  in  a  high  degree,  is  inspired  by 
honor  in  a  higher  ;  it  never  reaches  its  plentitude  of  growth  and 
perfection  but  in  the  most  exalted  minds.     Alas !  alas ! 

Jane.  What  aileth  my  virtuous  Ascham  ?  what  is  amiss  ?  why 
do  I  tremble  ? 

As.  I  remember  a  sort  of  prophecy,  made  three  years  ago  : 
it  is  a  prophecy  of  thy  condition  and  of  my  feelings  on  it.    Rec- 
ollectest  thou  who  wrote,  sitting  upon  the  sea-beach  the  evening 
after  an  excursion  to  the  Isle  of  Wight,  theso  verses  ? — 
"  Invisibly  bright  water !  so  like  air, 
On  looking  down  I  feared  thou  couldst  not  bear 


1  Roger  Ascham,  (as'  kam),  a  man  ccssor, married  his  son,  Lord  Guilford 
of  great  learning,  the  instructor  of  Dudley,  to  her  ;  and,  the  nation  hav- 
queon  Elizabeth,  was  born  in  1515,  ing  declared  in  favor  of  Mary,  they 
and  died  in  1568.  were  both  executed,  after  a  phantom 

2  Lady  Jane  Grey,  daughter  of  royalty  of  nine  days,  on  the  12th  of 
thcMarquisof  Dorset,  descended  from  February,  1554.  Lady  Jane  was  only 
the  royal  family  of  England  by  both  in  her  seventeenth  year,  and  was  re- 
parents,  was  born  in  1537.  The  Duke  markable  for  her  skill  in  the  classical, 
of  Northumberland  having  prevailed  Oriental,  and  modern  languages,  and 
on  Edward  VI.  to  name  her  his  tuc-  for  the  sweetness  of  her  disposition. 


ROGER    ASCHAM    AND    LADY    JANE    GBEY.  363 

My  little  bark,  of  all  light  barks  most  light ; 
And  looked  again,  and  drew  me  from  the  sight, 
And,  hanging  back,  breathed  each  fresh  gale  aghast, 
And  held  the  bench,  not  to  go  on  so  fast." 

Jane.  I  was  very  childish  when  I  composed  them  ;  and,  if  I 
had  thought  any  more  about  the  matter,  I  should  have  hoped 
you  had  been  too  generous  to  keep  them  in  your  memory  as 
witnesses  against  me. 

As.  Nay,  they  are  not  much  amiss  for  so  young  a  girl,  and 
there  being  so  few  of  them,  I  did  not  reprove  thee.  Half  an 
hour,  I  thought,  might  have  been  spent  more  unprofitable  ;  and 
I  now  shall  believe  it  firmly,  if  thou  wilt  but  be  led  by  them  to 
meditate  a  little  on  the  similarity  of  situation  in  which  thou  then 
wert  to  what  thou  art  now  in. 

Jane.  I  will  do  it,  and  whatever  else  you  command  ;  for  I  am 
weak  by  nature  and  very  timorous,  unless  where  a  strong  sense 
of  duty  holdeth  and  supporteth  me.  There  God  acteth,  and  not 
his  creature.  Those  were  with  me  at  sea  who  would  have  been 
•attentive  to  me  if  I  had  seemed  to  be  afraid,  even  though  wor- 
shipful men  and  women  were  in  the  company  ;  so  that  some- 
thing more  powerful  threw  my  fear  overboard.  Yet  I  never  will 
go  again  upon  the  water. 

As.  Exercise  that  beauteous  couple,  that  mind  and  body  much 
and  variously,  but  at  home,  at  home,  Jane  !  indoors,  and  about 
things  indoors  ;  for  God  is  there,  too.  AVe  have  rocks  and  quick- 
sands on  the  banks  of  our  Thames  (temz),  O  lady !  such  as  Ocean 
never  heard  of  ;  and  many  (who  knows  how  soon !)  may  be  en- 
gulfed in  the  current  under  their  garden  walls. 

Jane.  Thoroughly  do  I  now  understand  you.  Yes,  indeed,  I 
have  read  evil  things  of  courts  ;  but  I  think  nobody  van  go  out 
bad  who  entereth  good,  if  timely  and  true  warning  shall  have 
been  given. 

As.  I  see  perils  on  perils  which  thou  dost  not  see,  albeit  thou 
art  wiser  than  thy  poor  old  master.  And  it  is  not  because  Love 
hath  blinded  thee,  for  that  surpasseth  his  supposed  oinuirjotence  ; 
but  it  is  because  thy  tender  heart,  having  always  leant  afiection- 
ately  upon  good,  hath  felt  and  known  nothing  of  evil.  I  once 
persuaded  thee  to  reflect  much  ;  let  me  now  persuade  thee  to 
avoid  the  habitude  of  reflection,  to  lay  aside  books,  and  to  gaze 
carefully  and  steadfastly  on  what  is  under  and  before  thee. 


364  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

Jane.  I  have  well  bethought  rac  of  my  duties  :  oh,  how  ex- 
tensive they  are !  what  a  goodly  and  fair  inheritance !  But  tell 
me,  would  you  command  mo  never  more  to  read  Cicero,  and 
Epictetus,1  and  Plutarch,2  and  Polybius?3  The  others  I  do  re- 
sign ;  they  are  good  for  the  arbor  and  for  the  gravel-walk  ;  yet 
leave  unto  me,  I  beseech  you,  my  friend  and  father,  leave  unto 
me  for  my  fireside  and  for  my  pillow,  truth,  eloquence,  courage, 
constancy. 

As.  Read  them  on  thy  marriage-bed,  on  thy  child-bed,  on  thy 
death-bed.  Thou  spotless,  undrooping  lily,  they  have  fenced 
thee  right  well.  These  are  the  men  for  men  ;  these  are  to  fashion 
the  bright  and  blessed  creatures  whom  God  one  day  shall  smile 
upon  in  thy  chaste  bosom.4     Mind  thou  thy  husband. 

Jane.  I  sincerely  love  the  youth  (yooth)  who  hath  espoused 
me  ;  I  love  him  with  the  fondest,  the  most  solicitous  affection  ; 
I  pray  to  the  Almighty  for  his  goodness  and  happiness,  and  do 
forget  at  times — unworthy  supplicant ! — the  prayers  I  should 
have  offered  for  myself.  Never  fear  that  I  will  disparage  my 
kind  religious  teacher,  by  disobedience  to  my  husband  in  tho 
most  trying  duties. 

As.  Gentle  is  he,  gentle  and  virtuous  ;  but  time  will  harden 
him  :  time  must  harden  even  thee,  sweet  Jane !  Do  thou,  com- 
placently and  indirectly,  lead  him  from  ambition. 

Jane.  He  is  contented  with  me  and  with  home. 

As.  Ah,  Jane !  Jane  !  men  of  high  estate  grow  tired  of  con- 
tentedness. 

Jane.  He  told  me  he  never  liked  books  unless  I  read  them  to 
him  :  I  will  read  them  to  him  every  morning  ;  I  will  open  new 
worlds  to  him  richer  than  those  discovered  by  the  Spaniard  ;  I 

1  Ep^  ic  te'tus,  a  stoic  philosopher,  of  "  Moralia  "  or  "  Ethical  Works," 

the  moralist  of  Rome,  lived  about  90  amount  to  upward  of  sixty.     They 

years  after  Christ.     His  moral  wri-  are  pervaded  by  a  kind,  humane  dis- 

tings  are  justly  very  celebrated.  position,  and  a  love  of  every  thing 

'2  Plutarch,  (pin'  tark),  an  eminent  that  is  ennobling  and  excellent, 

ancient  philosopher  and  -writer,  au-  3  Polyb'ius,  a  celebrated  Greek 

thor  of  "  Parallel  Lives,"  which  con-  historian  and  statesman,  was  born  in 

tains  the  biography  of  forty-six  dis-  Arcadia,  n.  c.  203.    He  -wrote  a  "  Uni- 

tinffuished  Greeks  and  Romans,  was  vorsal  Ilistorv"  in   fortv  books,  of 

born  in  Ckoeronea,  a  city  of  Bceotia,  "which  we  have  only  five  complete, 

about  50  years  after  Christ.   His  writ-  and  an  abridgment  of  twelve  others, 

ings,  comprehended  under  the  title  *  Bosom,  (buz' um). 


PARIIII  ASICS    AND    THE    CAPTIVE.  3G5 

will  conduct  him  to  treasures — oh  what  treasures !  on  which  he 
may  sleep  in  innocence  and  peace. 

As.  Rather  do  thou  walk  with  him,  ride  with  him,  play  with 
him — be  his  faery,  his  page,  his  every  thing  that  love  and  poetry 
have  invented, — but  watch  him  well ;  sport  with  his  fancies  ; 
turn  them  about  liko  the  ringlets  round  his  cheek  ;  and  if  ever 
he  meditate  on  power,  go  toss  up  thy  baby  to  his  brow,  and 
bring  back  his  thoughts  into  his  heart  by  the  music  of  thy  dis- 
course. Teach  him  to  live  unto  God  and  unto  thee  ;  and  he 
will  discover  that  women,  like  the  plants  in  woods,  derive  their 
softness  and  tenderness  from  the  shade.  Landor. 

Waltbb  Savage  Lakdob  was  born  in  Warwick,  England,  on  the  30th  of  Jan- 
nary,  1775,  and  was  educated  at  Rugby  and  Oxford.  He  first  resided  at  Swansea, 
in  Wales,  dependent  on  his  father  for  a  small  Income,  where  he  commenced  his 
"  Imaginary  ( lonversations,"  a  work  which  alone  establishes  his  fame.  His  Hr-L 
publication  waa  a  small  volume  of  poems,  dated  1793.  On  succeeding  to  the 
family  estate  he  became  entirely  independent,  and  was  enabled  to  indulge  to  the 
fullest  his  propensity  to  literature.  He  left  England  in  1806,  married  in  1814,  and 
went  to  Italy  the  following  year,  where  he  has  since  chiefly  resided.  His  col- 
lected works,  of  prose  and  verse,  were  published  in  1846,  in  two  large  volumes. 
Mr.  Landon  is  a  poet  of  great  originality  and  power.  But  he  is  most  favorably 
known  now,  as  he  will  be  by  posterity,  for  bisprose  productions,  which,  written 
in  pure  nervous  English,  are  full  of  thoughts  that  fasten  themselves  on  the  mind, 
and  arc  "a  joy  forever."  His  "  Imaginary  Conversations,"  from  which  the  pre- 
ceding dialogue  was  selected,  is  a  very  valuable  work.  It  is  rich  in  scholarship  ; 
full  of  imagination,  wit,  and  humor;  correct,  concise,  and  pure  in  style  ;  various 
in  interest,  and  universal  in  sympathy.    He  died  at  Florence,  Sept.  17,  1S64. 

III. 
118.     PARRIIASIUS    AND    THE    CAPTIVE. 

THERE  stood  an  unsold  captive  in  the  mart, 
A  gray-haired  and  inajes'tical  old  man, 
Chained  to  a  pillar.     It  was  almost  night, 
And  the  last  seller  from  his  place  had  gone, 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  of  a  dog 
Crunching  beneath  the  stall  a  refuse  bone, 
Or  the  dull  echo  from  the  pavement  rung, 
As  the  faint  captive  changed  his  weary  feet. 

2.  He  had  stood  there  since  morning,  and  had  borne 
From  every  eye  in  Ath'ens  the  cold  gaze 
Of  curious  scorn.     The  Jew  had  taunted  him 
For  an  Olvnthian  slave.     The  buver  came 
And  roughly  struck  his  palm  upon  his  breast, 


386'  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

And  touched  his  unhealed  wounds,  and  with  a  sneer 
Passed  on  ;  and  when,  with  weariness  6'erspent, 
He  bowed  his  head  in  a  forgetful  sleep, 
The  inhuman  soldier  smote  him,  and,  with  threats 
Of  torture  to  his  children,  summoned  back 
The  ebbing  blood  into  his  pallid  face. 

3    'Twa3  evening,  and  the  half-descended  sun 
Tipped  with  a  golden  fire  the  many  domes 
Of  Ath'ens,  and  a  yellow  atmosphere 
Lay  rich  and  dusky  in  the  shaded  street 
Through  which  the  captive  gazed.     He  had  bjrne  up 
With  a  stout  heart  that  long  and  weary  day, 
Haughtily  patient  of  his  many  wrongs  ; 
But  now  he  was  alone,  and  from  his  nerves 
The  needless  strength  departed,  and  ho  leaned 
Prone  on  his  massy  chain,  and  let  his  thoughts 
Throng  on  him  as  they  would. 

4.  Unmarked  of  him, 
Parrhasius x  at  the  nearest  pillar  stood, 
Gazing  upon  his  grief.     The  Athenian's  cheek 
Flushed  as  he  measured  with  a  painter's  eye 
The  moving  picture.     The  abandoned  limbs, 
Stained  with  the  oozing  blood,  were  laced  with  veins 
Swollen  to  purple  fullness  ;  the  gray  hair, 

Thin  and  disordered,  hung  about  his  eyes  ; 
And  as  a  thought  of  wilder  bitterness 
Rose  in  his  memory,  his  lips  grew  white, 
And  the  fast  workings  of  his  bloodless  face 
Told  what  a  tooth  of  fire  was  at  his  heart. 

5.  The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  room 
Streamed  richly,  and  the  hidden  colors  stole 
From  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth, 
And  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere 

1  Parrhasius,  (par  ra'  zl  us),  a  distin-  Parrhasius  having1  exhibited  a  piece, 

guished  painter  of  antiquity,  born  Zeuxis  said,  "Remove  your  curtain 

about  the  year  430  B.  c,  was  a  nativo  that   we  may   see    your   painting." 

of  Ephesus,  though  others  say  lie  was  The  curtain  was  the  painting.  Zeuxis 

an  Athenian,  and  the  rival  of  Zeuxis.  acknowledged    his    defeat,    saying, 

The  latter  painted  grapes  so  natur-  "  Zeuxis    has    deceived    birds,    but 

ally  that  birds  came  to  pick  them.  Parrhasius  has  deceived  Zeuxis." 


PARRIIASIUS    AND    TnE    CAPTIVE  367 

Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical  they  lay. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  armor,  and  about 
In  the  dim  corners  stood  the  sculptured  forms 
Of  Cytheris,1  and  Diiin,3  and  stern  Jove,3 
And  from  tho  casement  soberly  away 
Fell  the  grotesque  long  shadows,  full  and  true, 
And,  like  a  vail  of  lilmy  mellowness, 
Tho  lint-specks  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 

6.  Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  his  canvas.     There  Prome'theua  *  lay, 
Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus — 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and' the  links 

Of  the  lame  Lem'nian 5  festering  in  his  flesh  ; 
And,  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 
Eapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  forth 
With  its  far-reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 
And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye, 
Flashed  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 
Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip, 
Were  like  the  winged  god's,  breathing  from  his  flight. 

7.  "  Bring  me  the  captive  now ! 

My  hand  feels  skillful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens — around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

1  Cy  the'  ris,  a  celebrated  courte-  thology,  -was  son  of  the  Titan  Sapetus 
6an,  the  mistress  of  Antony,  and  sub-  and  Clymene.  His  name  signifies 
sequently  of  the  poet  Gallus,  who  forethought.  For  offenses  against  Ju- 
mentions  her  in  his  poems  under  the  piter,  he  was  chained  to  a  rock  on 
name  of  Lycoris.  Mount  Caucasus,  where  an  eagle  con 

2  Diana,  (dla'na),  an  ancient  Ital-  sumed  in  the  daytime  his  liver,  which 
ian  divinity,  whom  the  Romans  iden-  was  restored  ineachsucceedingnight, 
titled  with  the  Greek  Artemis.  Ac-  6  Lena'  ni  an,  from  Lemnos,  now 
cording  to  the  mostancient  accounts,  Stalimni.  an  island  of  the  Greek  Ar- 
she  was  the  daughter  of  Jupiter  and  chipelago,  where  the  lame  Heph»s- 
Leto,  and  the  twin  sister  of  Apollo,  tus,  or  Vulcan,  the  god  of  fire,  is  said 

3  Jove,  Jupiter,  the  supreme  deity  to  have  fallen,  when  Jupiter  hurled 
of  the  Romans,  called  Zeus  by  the  him  down  from  heaven.  Hence  the 
Greeks.  workshop  of  the  god  is  sometimes 

4  Pro  me'  theus,  in  heathen  my-  placed  in  this  island. 


368  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER, 

8.  "  Ha !  bind  him  on  his  back ! 

Look ! — as  Prome'theus  in  my  picture  here ! 
Quick — or  he  faints! — stand  with  the  cordial  near! 

Now — bend  him  to  the  rack ! 
Press  down  the  poisoned  links  into  his  ilesh ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh ! 

9.  "  So — let  him  writhe !     How  long 

Will  he  live  thus  ?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now ! 
What  a  line  agony  works  upon  his  brow ! 

Ha !  gray-haired,  and  so  strong ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan ! 
Gods !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan ! 

10.  "'Pity' thee!     Soldo! 

I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  the  altar — 

But  does  the  robed  priest  for  his  pity  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee,  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine — 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine. 

11.  "  'Hereafter!'     Ay — hereafter! 

A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track ! 

What  gave  Death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  skeptic's  laughter  ? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story — 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 

12.  "No,  no,  old  man!  we  die 

Even  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  even  as  they ! 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye — 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

13.  "  Yet  there's  a  deathless  name  ! 

A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn— 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars !  I'd  bind  it  on ! 

14.  "  Ay — though  it  bid  me  rifle 

My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst — 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  maddened  first— 


PARlillASIUS    AND    THE    CAPTIVE.  339 

i 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild — 

15.  "  All— I  would  do  it  all— 

Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot — 
Thrust  foullv  into  earth  to  be  forgot ! 
O  heavens  ! — but  I  appall 

Your  heart,  old  man  !  forgive ha !  on  your  livo3 

Let  him  not  faint ! — rack  him  till  he  revives ! 

16.  "  Vain — vain — give  o'er !     His  eyo 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now — 
Stand  back !  I'll  paint  tho  death-dew  on  his  brow  I 

Gods !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  1 

17.  "  Shivering !     Hark !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now — that  was  a  difficult  breath— 
Another  ?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  O  Death  ! 

Look!  how  his  temple  flutters! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?     Aha !  lift  up  his  head ! 
He  shudders — gasps — Jove  help  him! — so — he's  dead." 

IS.  How  like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart 
Rules  the  unreined  ambition  !     Let  it  once 
But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 
Glows  with  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought 
And  unthrones  peace  forever.     Putting  on 
The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 
The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 
Left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's  lip, 
We  look  upon  our  splendor  and  forget 
The  thirst  of  which  we  perish  !     Yet  hath  life 
Many  a  falser  idol.     There  are  hopes 
Promising  well  ;  and  love-touched  dreams  for  some  ; 
And  passions,  many  a  wild  one  ;  and  fair  schemes 
For  gold  and  pleasure — yet  will  only  this 
Balk  not  the  soul — Ambition  only,  gives, 
Even  of  bitterness,  a  beaker  full! 

19.  Friendship  is  but  a  slow-awaking  dream, 

Troubled  at  best — Love  is  a  lamp  unseen, 

16* 


370  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 

4 

Burning  to  waste,  or,  if  its  light  is  found, 
Nursed  for  an  idle  hour,  then  idly  broken — 
Gain  is  a  groveling  care,  and  Folly  tires, 
And  Quiet  is  a  hunger  never  fed — 
And  from  Love's  very  bosom,  and  from  Gain, 
Or  Folly,  or  a  Friend,  or  from  Repose — 
From  all  but  keen  Ambition — will  the  soul 
Snatch  the  first  moment  of  forge tfulness 
To  wander  like  a  restless  child  away. 

20*  Oh,  if  there  were  not  better  hopes  than  these — 
Were  there  no  palm  beyond  a  feverish  fame — 
If  the  proud  wealth  flung  back  upon  the  heart 
Must  canker  in  its  coffers — if  the  links 
Falsehood  hath  broken  will  unite  no  more — 
If  the  deep-yearning  love,  that  hath  not  found 
Its  like  in  the  cold  world,  must  waste  in  tears — 
If  truth,  and  fervor,  and  devotedness, 
Finding  no  worthy  altar,  must  return 
And  die  of  their  own  fullness — if  beyond 
The  grave  there  is  no  heaven  in  whose  wide  air 
The  spirit  may  find  room,  and  in  the  love 
Of  whose  bright  habitants  the  lavish  heart 
May  spend  itself — what  thrice-mocked  fools  aee  we  ! 

Nl  P.  Willis. 


section   XXII. 
I. 

119.     CHARACTER    OF    SCOTT. 

TAKE  it  for  all  and  all,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  char- 
acter of  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  probably  the  most  remarkable 
on  record.  There  is  no  man  of  historical  celebrity  that  we  now 
recall,  who  combined,  in  so  eminent  a  degree,  the  highest  quali- 
ties of  the  moral,  the  intellectual,  and  the  physical.  He  united 
in  his  own  character  what  hitherto  had  been  found  incompatible. 
2.  Though  a  poet,  and  living  in  an  ideal  world,  he  was  an 
exact,  methodical  man  of  business  ;  though  achieving  with  the 


CHARACTER    OF    SCOTT.  37I 

most  wonderful  facility  of  genius,  lie  was  patient  and  laborious  ; 
a  mousing  antiquarian,  yet  with  the  most  active  interest  in  the 
present  and  whatever  was  going  on  around  him  ;  with  a  strong 
turn  for  a  roving  life  and  military  adventure,  he  was  yet  chained 
to  his  desk  more  hours,  at  somo  periods  of  his  life,  than  a  monk- 
ish recluse ;  a  man  with  a  heart  as  capacious  as  his  head  ;  a 
Tory,  brimful  of  Jac'obitism,1  yet  full  of  sympathy  and  unaffect- 
ed familiarity  with  all  classes,  even  the  humblest ;  a  successful 
author,  without  pedantry  and  without  conceit  ;  one,  indeed,  at 
tho  head  of  the  republic  of  letters,  and  yet  with  a  lower  estimate 
of  letters,  as  compared  with  other  intellectual  pursuits,  than 
was  ever  hazarded  before. 

3.  The  first  quality  of  his  character,  or,  rather,  that  which 
forms  tho  basis  of  it,  as  of  all  great  characters,  was  his  energy. 
"We  see  it  in  his  early  youth,  triumphing  over  the  impediments 
of  nature,  and  in  spite  of  lameness,  making  him  conspicuous  in 
every  sort  of  athletic  exercise — clambering  up  dizzy  precipices, 
wading  through  treacherous  fords,  and  performing  feats  of  pe- 
destrianism  that  make  one's  joints  ache  to  read  of.  As  he  ad- 
vanced in  life,  we  see  the  same  force  of  purpo:;c  turned  to 
higher  objects. 

4.  We  see  the  same  powerful  energies  triumphing  over  disease 
at  a  later  period,  when  nothing  but  a  resolution  to  get  the  bet- 
ter of  it  enabled  him  to  do  so.  "  Be  assured,"  he  remarked  to 
Mr.  Gillies,  "  that  if  pain  could  have  prevented  my  application 
to  literary  labor,  not  a  page  of  Ivanhoe  would  have  been  written. 
Now  if  I  had  given  way  to  mere  feelings,  and  had  ceased  to  work, 
it  is  a  question  whether  the  disorder  might  not  have  taken  a 
deeper  root,  and  become  incurable." 

5.  Another  quality,  which,  like  the  last,  seems  to  have  given 
tone  to  his  character,  was  his  social  or  benevolent  feelings.  His 
heart  was  an  unfailing  fountain,  which  not  merely  the  distresses, 
but  the  joys  of  his  fellow-creatures  made  to  How  like  water 

6.  Rarely  indeed  is  this  precious  quality  found  united  with 
the  most  exalted  intellect.  "Whether  it  be  that  nature,  chary  of 
her  gifts,  does  not  care  to  shower  too  many  of  them  on  one  head  ; 
or  that  the  public  admiration  has  led  the  man  of  intellect  to  set 
too  high  a  value  on  himself,  or  at  least  his  own  pursuits,  to  take 


1  Jac'  obit  ism,  the  principles  of  the  adherents  of  James  the  Second,  of 


England. 


372  NATIONAL    FIFTn    READER. 

an  interest  in  the  inferior  concerns  of  others  ;  or  that  the  fear 
of  compromising  his  dignity  puts  him  "  on  points  "  with  those 
who  approach  him  ;  or  whether,  in  truth,  the  very  magnitude 
of  his  own  reputation  throws  a  freezing  shadow  over  us  littlo 
people  in  his  neighborhood — whatever  be  the  cause,  it  is  too  truo 
that  the  highest  powers  of  the  mind  are  very  often  deficient  in 
the  only  one  which  can  malic  the  rest  of  much  worth  in  society 
— the  power  of  pleasing. 

7.  Scott  was  not  one  of  these  little  great.  His  was  not  one  of 
those  dark-lantern  visages  which  concentrate  all  their  light  on 
their  own  path,  and  are  black  as  midnight  to  all  about  them. 
He  had  a  ready  sympathy,  a  word  of  contagious  kindness  or 
cordial  greeting  for  all.  His  manners,  too,  were  of  a  kind  to 
dispel  the  icy  reserve  and  awe  which  his  great  name  was  calcu- 
lated to  inspire. 

8.  He  relished  a  good  joke,  from  whatever  quarter  it  came, 
and  was  not  over-dainty  in  his  manner  of  testifying  his  satisfac- 
tion. "  In  the  full  tide  of  mirth,  he  did  indeed  laugh  the  heart's 
laugh,"  says  Mr.  Adolphus.  "  Give  me  an  honest  laugher," 
said  Scott  himself  on  another  occasion,  when  a  buckram  man  of 
fashion  had  been  paying  him  a  visit  at  Abbotsford. 

9.  His  manners,  free  from  affectation  or  artifice  of  any  sort, 
exhibited  the  spontaneous  movements  of  a  kind  disposition, 
subject  to  those  rules  of  good  breeding  which  Nature  herself 
might  have  dictated.  In  this  way  he  answered  his  own  purpose 
admirably  as  a  painter  of  character,  by  putting  every  man  in 
good  humor  with  himself,  in  the  same  manner  as  a  cunning 
portrait-painter  amuses  his  sitters  with  such  store  of  fun  and 
anecdote  as  may  throw  them  off  their  guard,  and  call  out  the 
happiest  expressions  of  their  countenances. 

10.  The  place  where  his  benevolent  impulses  found  their 
proper  theater  for  expansion  was  his  own  home  ;  surrounded  by 
a  happy  family,  and  dispensing  all  the  hospitalities  of  a  great 
feudal  proprietor.  "There  are  many  good  things  in  life,"  he 
says,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "whatever  satirists '  and  mis'anthropes3 
may  say  to  the  contrary  ;  but  probably  the  best  of  all,  next  to  a 

1  SaT  ir  ist,  one  who  writes  com  posure  of  what  in  public  or  private 
positions,  generally  poetical,  that  hold  morals  deserves  rebuke, 
up  vice  or  folly  to  severe  disapproval ;  a  Mis'  an  thrope,  a  hater  of  man- 
one  who  makes  a  keen  or  severe  ex  kind. 


scene  from  ivanhoe.  373 

conscienco  void  of  offence,  (without  which,  by-the-by,  they  can 
hardly  exist,)  arc  the  quiet  exercise  and  enjoyment  of  the  social 
feelings,  in  which  we  arc  at  once  happy  ourselves,  and  tho  cause 
of  happiness  to  them  who  are  dearest  to  us." 

11.  Every  page  of  the  work,  almost,  shows  us  how  intimately 
he  blended  himself  with  the  pleasures  and  the  pursuits  of  his 
own  familv,  watched  over  the  education  of  his  children,  shared 
in  their  rides,  their  rambles,  and  sports,  losing  no  opportunity 
of  kindling  in  their  young  minds  a  love  of  virtue,  and  honorable 
principles  of  action. 

12.  But  Scott's  sympathies  were  not  confined  to  his  species, 
and  if  he  treated  them  like  blood  relations,  he  treated  his  brute 
followers  like  personal  friends.  Every  one  remembers  old  Maida 
and  faithful  Camp,  the  "  dear  old  friend,"  whose  loss  cost  him  a 
dinner.  Mr.  Gillies  tells  us  that  he  went  into  his  study  on  one 
occasion,  when  he  was  winding  off  his  "  Vision  of  Don  Roderick." 
"  'Look  here,'  said  the  poet, '  I  have  just  begun  to  copy  over  tho 
rhymes  that  you  heard  to-day  and  applauded  so  much.  Return 
to  supper  if  you  can  ;  only  don't  be  late,  as  you  perceive  we 
keep  early  hours,  and  Wallace  will  not  suffer  me  to  rest  after 
six  in  the  morning.     Come,  good  dog,  and  help  the  poet.' 

13.  "At  this  hint,  Wallace  seated  himself  upright  on  a  chair 
next  his  master,  who  offered  him  a  newspaper,  which  he  directly 
seized,  looking  very  wise,  and  holding  it  firmly  and  contentedly 
in  his  mouth.  Scott  looked  at  him  with  great  satisfaction,  for 
he  was  excessively  fond  of  dogs.  'Very  well,' said  he  ;  'now 
we  shall  get  on.'  And  so  I  left  them  abruptly,  knowing  that 
my  '  absence  would  be  the  best  company.5  "       w.  II.  Prescott. 

II. 

120.     SCENE    FROM    IVANHOE.1 

FOLLOWING  with  wonderful  promptitude  the  directions 
of  Ivanhoe,  and  availing  herself  of  the  protection  of  the 
large  ancient  shield,  which  she  placed  against  the  lower  part  of 

1  This  scene  is  laid  in  England,  in  Rebecca,  the   young   Jewess,  while 

the  twelfth  century.    "Wounded  and  the  castle  is  undergoing  an  assault 

a  captive  in  the  castle  of  Front-de-  from    a    party   of    outlawed   forest 

Bceuf,  a  Norman   knight,  Ivanhoe,  rangers,  led  on  by  Richard,  king  of 

carries  on   this    conversation   with  England,  the  unknown  knight. 


374:  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

the  window,  Rebecca,  with  tolerable  security  to  herself,  could 
witness  part  of  what  was  passing  without  the  castle,  and  report 
to  Ivanhoe  the  preparations  which  the  assailants  were  making 
for  the  storm. 

2.  "  The  skirts  of  the  wood  seem  lined  with  archers,  although 
only  a  few  are  advanced  from  its  dark  shadow."  "  Under  what 
banner  ?"  asked  Ivanhoe.  "  Under  no  ensign  of  war  which  I 
can  observe,"  answered  Bebecca.  "  A  singular  novelty,"  mut- 
tered the  knight,  "  to  advance  to  storm  such  a  castle  without 
pennon  or  banner  displayed ! — Seest  thou  who  they  be  that  act 
as  leaders  ?"  "  A  knight,  clad  in  sable  armor,  is  the  most  con- 
spicuous," said  the  Jewess  ;  "  he  alone  is  armed  from  head  to 
heel,  and  seems  to  assume  the  direction  of  all  around  him." 

3.  "  What  device  does  he  bear  on  his  shield  ?"  replied  Ivan- 
hoe. "  Something  resembling  a  bar  of  iron,  and  a  padlock 
painted  blue  on  the  black  shield."  "  A  fetterlock  and  shackle- 
bolt  azure,"  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "  I  know  not  who  may  bear  the  de- 
vice, but  well  I  ween  it  might  now  be  mine  own.  Canst  thou 
not  see  the  motto  ?"  "  Scarce  the  device  itself,  at  this  distance," 
replied  Rebecca  ;  "  but  when  the  sun  glances  fair  upon  his 
shield,  it  shows  as  I  tell  you." 

4.  "  Seem  there  no  other  leaders  r"  exclaimed  the  anxious  in- 
quirer. "  None  (nun)  of  mark  and  distinction  that  I  can  behold 
from  this  station,"  said  Rebecca  ;  "  but,  doubtless,  the  other 
side  of  the  castle  is  also  assailed.  They  appear  even  now  pre- 
paring to  advance."  Her  description  was  here  suddenly  inter- 
rupted by  the  signal  for  assault,  which  was  given  by  the  blast 
of  a  shrill  bugle,  and  at  once  answered  by  a  nourish  of  the 
Norman  trumpets  from  the  battlements. 

5.  "  And  I  must  he  here  like  a  bedridden  monk,"  exclaimed 
Ivanhoe,  "  while  the  game  that  gives  me  freedom  or  death  is 
played  out  by  the  hand  of  others ! — Look  from  the  window  once 
again,  kind  maiden, — but  beware  that  you  are  not  marked  by 
the  archers  beneath, — look  out  once  more,  and  tell  me  if  they 
yet  advance  to  the  storm." — With  patient  courage,  strengthened 
by  the  interval  which  she  had  employed  in  mental  devotion, 
Rebecca  again  (a  gen')  took  post  at  the  lattice,  sheltering  her- 
self, however,  so  as  not  to  be  visible  from  beneath. 

6.  "What  dost  thou  see,  Rebecca?"  again  demanded  the 
wounded  knight.     "  Nothing  (nuth'ing)  but  the  cloud  of  arrows 


sce:;e  from  iyanhoe.  375 

flying  so  thick  as  to  dazzle  mine  eyes,  and  to  hide  the  bowmen 
who  shoot  them."  "  That  can  not  endure,"  said  Ivanhoo  ;  "  if 
they  press  not  right  on  to  carry  the  castle  by  pure  force  of  arms, 
the  archery  may  avail  but  little  against  stone  walls  and  bul- 
warks. Look  for  tho  Knight  of  the  Fetterlock,  fair  Rebecca, 
and  see  how  he  bears  himself  ;  for,  as  the  leader  is,  so  will  his 
followers  bo."     "  I  see  him  not,"  said  Rebecca. 

7.  "  Foul  craven  !"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe  ;  "  does  he  blench  from 
the  helm  when  tho  wind  blows  highest  ?"  "  Ho  blenches  not ! 
he  blenches  not!"  said  Rebecca  ;  "I  seo  him  now  ;  he  leads  a 
body  of  men  close  under  tho  outer  barrier  of  the  barbacan.1 
They  pull  down  the  piles  and  palisades  ;3  they  hew  down  tho 
barriers  with  axes.  His  high  black  plume  floats  abroad  over 
the  throng,  like  a  raven  over  the  field  of  the  slain.  They  havo 
made  a  breach  in  the  barriers — they  rush  in — they  are  thrust 
back! — Front-de-Bceuf 3  heads  the  defenders  ; — I  see  his  gigan- 
tic form  above  the  press.  They  throng  again  to  the  breach,  and 
the  pass  is  disputed  hand  to  hand,  and  man  to  man.  It  is  tho 
meeting  of  two  fierce  tides — tho  conflict  of  two  oceans,  moved 
by  ad'verse  winds !" 

8.  She  turned  her  head  from  the  lattice,  as  if  unable  longer 
to  endure  a  sight  so  terrible.  "Look  forth  again,  Rebecca," 
said  Ivanhoe,  mistaking  the  cause  of  her  retiring  ;  "  the  archery 
must  in  some  degree  have  ceased,  since  they  are  now  fighting 
hand  to  hand.  Look  again  ;  there  is  now  less  danger."  Re- 
becca again  looked  forth,  and  almost  immediately  exclaimed  : — 
"Front-de-Bceuf  and  the  Black  Knight  fight  hand  to  hand  on 
the  breach,  amid  tho  roar  of  their  followers,  who  watch  tho 
progress  of  the  strife.  Heaven  strike  with  the  cause  of  the  op- 
pressed, and  of  the  captive!"  She  then  uttered  a  loud  shriek, 
and  exclaimed: — "Ho  is  down! — he  is  down!"  "AVho  is 
down?"  cried  Ivanhoe.  "For  our  dear  lady's  sake,  tell  mc 
which  has  fallen  ?" 

9.  "  The  Black  Knight,"  answered  Rebecca,  faintly  ;  then  in- 
stantly again  shouted,  with  joyful  eagerness, — "But  no — but 
no ! — he  is  on  foot  again,  and  fights  as  if  there  were  twenty 


1  Bar'  ba  can,  an  advanced  work  one  end  of  which  is  set  firmly  in 
defending  the  entrance  to  a  castle  or  the  ground  ;  a  fence  formed  of  pal- 
city,  as  at  a  draw-bridge  or  gate.  isades,  used  as  n  moans  of  defense. 

8  PalN  i  sade',  a  strong  sharp  stake,  3  Front-cIe-Eceuf,  (frong-du-buf.) 


37G  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

men's  strength,  in  his  single  arm — his  stoord  is  broken — he 
snatches  an  axe  from  a  yeoman — he  presses  Front-de-Bceuf  with 
blow  on  blow — the  giant  stoops  and  totters,  like  an  oak  under 
the  steel  of  the  woodman — he  falls — he  falls !" 

10.  "  Front-de-Bceuf  ?"  exclaimed  Ivanhoe.  "  Front-de- 
Bceuf  !"  answered  the  Jewess.  "  His  men  rash  to  the  rescue, 
headed  by  the  haughty  Templar — their  united  force  compels  the 
champion  to  pause — they  drag  Front-de-Bceuf  within  the  walls." 

11.  "The  assailants  have  won  the  barriers,  have  they  not?" 
said  Ivanhoe.  "They  have — they  have!"  exclaimed  Rebecca, 
"  and  they  press  the  beseiged  hard  upon  the  outer  wall ;  some 
plant  ladders,  some  swarm  like  bees,  and  endeavor  to  ascend 
upon  the  shoulders  of  each  other — down  go  stones,  beams,  and 
trunks  of  trees  upon  their  heads,  and  as  fast  as  they  bear  the 
wounded  men  to  the  rear,  fresh  men  supply  their  place  in  tho 
assault.  Great  God!  hast  thou  given  men  thine  own  image, 
that  it  should  be  thus  cruelly  defaced  by  the  hands  of  their 
brethren !" 

12.  "Think  not  of  that,"  said  Ivanhoe  ;  "this  is  no  time  for 
such  thoughts.  Who  yield? — who  push  their  way?"  "The 
ladders  are  thrown  down,"  replied  Rebecca,  shuddering.  "  The 
soldiers  lie  groveling  under  them  like  crushed  reptiles — the  be- 
sieged have  the  better !" 

13.  "  Saint  George  strike  for  us !"  exclaimed  the  knight ;  "  do 
the  false  yeomen1  give  way?"  "No!"  exclaimed  Rebecca; 
"  they  bear  themselves  right  yeomanly — the  Black  Knight  ap- 
proaches the  postern 2  with  his  huge  axe  — the  thundering  blows 
which  he  deals,  you  may  hear  them  above  all  the  din  and  shouts 
of  the  battle — stones  and  beams  are  hailed  down  on  the  bold 
champion — he  regards  them  no  more  than  if  they  were  thistle- 
down or  feathers !" 

14.  "By  Saint  John  of  Acre!"  said  Ivanhoe,  raising  himself 
joyfully  on  his  couch  ;  "  methought  there  was  but  one  man  in 
England  that  might  do  such  a  deed!" — "The  postern  gate 
shakes,"  continued  Rebecca  ;  "  it  crashes — it  is  splintered  by 
his  blows — they  rush  in — the  outwork  is  won — they  hurl  the 
defenders   from   the   battlements — they  throw  them  into  the 


'Yeo'man,  a  man  frco  born;  a    sage  between   the  parade   and  the 

freeholder.  main  ditch,  or  between  the  ditches  of 

2  Fos'  tern,  an  under-ground  pas-    the  interior  of  the  outworks  of  a  fort 


SCENE    FEOM    IVANIIOE.  377 

moat !     Oil,  men, — if  yc  be  indeed  men, — spare  them  that  can 
resist  no  longer!" 

15.  "  The  bridge, — the  bridge  which  communicates  with  the 
castle, — have  they  won  that  pass?"  exclaimed  Ivanhoc.  "  No/' 
replied  Rebecca;  "the  Templar  has  destroyed  the  plank  on 
which  they  crossed — few  of  the  defenders  escaped  with  him 
into  the  castle — the  shrieks  and  cries  which  you  hear,  tell  the 
fate  of  the  others !  Alas !  I  see  it  is  still  more  difficult  to  look 
upon  victory  than  upon  battle !" 

1G.  ""What  do  they  now,  maiden?"  said  Ivanhoc;  "look 
forth  yet  again — this  is  no  time  to  faint  at  bloodshed."  "It  is 
over  for  the  time,"  answered  Rebecca.  "  Our  friends  strengthen 
themselves  within  the  outwork  which  they  have  mastered,  and 
it  affords  them  so  good  a  shelter  from  the  foeman's  shot,  that 
the  garison  only  bestow  a  few  bolts  on  it,  from  interval  to  inter- 
val, as  if  rather  to  disquiet  than  effectually  to  injure  them." 

Scott. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  a  Scottish  poet  and  novelist,  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
and  laborious  writers  of  any  age,  was  born  in  Edinburgh,  August  15th,  1771. 
Being  a  delicate  child,  he  was  sent  at  three  years  of  age  to  reside  on  his  pater- 
nal grandfather's  farm,  in  Roxburghshire,  a  region  abounding  in  traditions  of 
the  border  wars,  to  which  even  in  infancy  he  was  an  eager  listener.  lie  returned 
to  Edinburgh  in  1779,  greatly  improved  in  health,  excepting  a  lameness  from 
which  he  never  recovered.  He  soon  became  a  pupil  in  the  high  school  of  Edin- 
burgh, whence,  in  17S3,  he  was  transferred  to  the  university.  His  carte  rat  school 
or  college  was  not  brilliant ;  but  he  was  an  indefatigable  reader  of  romance5,  old 
plays,  poetry,  and  miscellaneous  literature,  and  a  keen  observer  of  natural 
6ccnery.  After  six  years  devoted  to  professional  study  in  his  father's  office,  to 
miscellaneous  reading,  and  composition,  Uc  was  called  to  the  Scottish  bar,  in 
1792.  He  married  Miss  Charlotte  Carpenter,  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty,  in 
1797.  His  first  great  poem,  "The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  on  n~  publication 
in  1S05.  was  received  with  universal  admiration,  and  placed  the  author  among  the 
foremost  poets  of  the  ngc.  His  appointment,  in  1806,  to  one  of  the  chief  clerk* 
ships  in  the  Scottish  Court  of  Sessions,  with  a  salary  Boon  increased  to  £1900, 
enabled  him  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  literature.  In  1806  **  Mannion"  ap- 
peared; in  1S10,  the  "Lady  of  the  Lake;"  which  were  followed  by  the  u  Vision 
of  Don  Roderlc,"  "Rokcby,"  and  in  1815,  "The  Lord  of  the  Isles."  In  the 
summer  of  1814,  he  commenced  his  more  splendid  career,  a?  a  novelist,  by  pub- 
lishing "  Wavcrlcy."  In  that  year  a  portion  of  his  literary  gains  were  devoted 
to  the  purchase  of  a  small  farm  on  the  river  Tweed,  not  far  from  Melrose,  to 
which  he  gave  the  name  of  Abbotsford,  now  one  of  the  most  famous  literary 
shrines  of  Scotland.  To  "  Wavcrlcy"  rapidly  succeeded,  for  nearly  fifteen  years, 
his  series  of  novels  that  appeared  anonymously.  In  1886,  two  firms,  his  pub- 
lishers and  his  printers,  failed,  leaving  Scott's  liabilities  little  less  than  £150,000. 
Unappalled  by  the  magnitude  of  his  misfortunes,  having  secured  an  extension 
of  time,  at  the  age  of  fifty-five,  he  heroically  set  to  work  to  reimburse  his  cred- 
itors by  his  literary  labors.    At  the  time  of  his  death,  at  Abbotsford,  September 


378  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

21st,  1832,  he  had  paid  upward  of  £100,000  of  his  debts ;  and  soon  after  by  the 
sale  of  his  copyright  interest  in  the  Waverley  novels,  the  claims  of  all  his  cred- 
itors were  fully  satisfied — a  result  perhaps  never  achieved  before  or  since  within 
so  brief  a  space  of  time  by  the  literary  efforts  of  a  single  person.  His  character 
is  most  happily  sketched  by  Prescott,  p.  370. 

m. 

121.     SHAKSPEARE. 

SHAKSPEARE  is,  above  all  writers, — at  least  above  all 
modern  writers, — the  poet  of  nature  ;  the  poet  that  holds 
up  to  his  readers  a  faithful  mirror  of  manners  and  of  life.  His 
characters  are  not  modified  by  the  customs  of  particular  places, 
unpracticed  by  the  rest  of  the  world  ;  by  the  peculiarities  of 
studies  or  professions,  which  can  operate  but  upon  smaU  num- 
bers ;  or  by  the  accidents  of  transient  fashions  or  temporary 
opinions  ;  they  are  the  genuine  progeny  of  common  humanity, 
such  as  the  world  will  always  supply,  and  observation  wiU  always 
find.  His  persons  act  and  speak  by  the  influence  of  those  gen- 
eral passions  and  principles  by  which  all  minds  are  agitated, 
and  the  whole  system  of  life  is  continued  in  motion.  In  the 
writings  of  other  poets  a  character  is  too  often  an  individual : 
in  those  of  Shaks'peare  it  is  commonly  a  species. 

2.  It  is  from  this  wide  extension  of  design  that  so  much  in- 
struction is  derived.  It  is  this  which  fills  the  plays  of  Shaks- 
peare  wifh  practical  axioms  and  domestic  wisdom.  It  was  said 
of  Euripides,1  that  every  verse  was  a  precept ;  and  it  may  be 
said  of  Shakspeare,  that  from  his  works  may  be  collected  a  sys- 
tem of  civil  and  economical  prudence.  Yet  his  real  power  is 
not  shown  in  the  splendor  of  particular  passages,  but  by  the 
progress  of  his  fable,  and  the  tenor  of  his  dialogue  :  and  he  that 
tries  to  recommend  him  by  select  quotations,  will  succeed  like 
the  pedant  in  Hier'ocles,2  who,  when  he  offered  his  house  to 
sale,  carried  a  brick  in  his  pocket  as  a  specimen. 

1  Eu  rip'  ides,  one   of  the  three  with  Socrates.     According  to  somo 

great  Greek  tragedians,  was  born  in  authorities,  Euripides  wrote  ninety- 

Salamis,  whither  his  parents  retired  two  tragedies,  according  to  others, 

during  the  occupation  of  Attica  by  seventy -five.     Of  these  nineteen  are 

Xerxes,  on  the  day  of  the  glorious  extant.     He  died  b.  c  40G. 

victory  near  that  island,  B.  c.  480.  a  Hi  eV  o  cles,  a  Platonic  philoso- 

He  was  highly  learned  and  accom-  pher    of     Alexandria,    who    wrote 

plished,  and  on  terms  of  intimacy  many  facetious  stories. 


SHAKSPEARE.  379 

3.  It  will  not  easily  be  imagined  how  much  Shakspeare  ex- 
cels in  accommodating  his  sentiments  to  real  life,  but  by  com- 
paring him  with  other  authors.  It  was  observed  of  the  ancient 
schools  of  declamation,  that  the  mure  diligently  they  were  fre- 
quented, the  more  was  the  student  disqualified  for  the  world, 
because  he  found  nothing  there  which  he  should  ever  meet  in 
any  other  place.  The  same  remark  may  be  applied  to  every 
stage  but  that  of  Shakspeare.  The  theater,  when  it  is  under 
any  other  direction,  is  peopled  by  such  characters  as  were  never 
seen,  conversing  in  a  language  which  was  never  heard,  upon 
topics  which  will  never  arise  in  the  commerce  of  mankind. 
But  the  dialogue  of  this  author  is  often  so  evidently  determined 
by  the  incident  which  produces  it,  and  is  pursued  with  so  much 
ease  and  simplicity,  that  it  seems  scarcely  to  claim  the  merit  of 
fiction,  but  to  have  been  gleaned  by  diligent  selection  out  of 
common  conversation  and  common  occurrences. 

4.  Upon  every  other  stage  the  universal  agent  is  love,  by 
whose  power  all  good  and  evil  is  distributed,  and  every  action 
quickened  or  retarded.  To  bring  a  lover,  a  lady,  and  a  rival 
into  the  fable  ;  to  entangle  them  in  contradictory  obligations, 
perplex  them  with  oppositions  of  interest,  and  harass  them  with 
violence  of  desires  inconsistent  with  each  other  ;  to  make  them 
meet  in  rapture,  and  part  in  agony  ;  to  fill  their  mourns  with 
hyperbolical l  joy  and  outrageous  sorrow  ;  to  distress  them  as 
nothing  human  ever  was  distressed  ;  to  deliver  them  as  nothing 
human  ever  was  delivered  ;  is  the  business  of  a  modern  dram- 
atist. For  this,  probability  is  violated,  life  is  misrepresented, 
and  language  is  depraved. 

5.  But  love  is  only  one  of  many  passions  ;  and  as  it  has  no 
great  influence  upon  the  sum  of  life,  it  has  little  operation  in 
the  dramas  of  a  poet,  who  caught  his  ideas  from  the  living 
world,  and  exhibited  only  what  he  saw  before  him.  He  knew 
that  any  other  passion,  as  it  was  regular  or  exorbitant,  was  a 
cause  of  happiness  or  calamity.  This,  therefore,  is  the  praise 
of  Shakspeare,  that  his  driiina  is  the  mirror  of  life  ;  that  he  who 
has  mazed  his  imagination,  in  following  the  jmantoms  which 
other  writers  raise  up  before  him,  may  here  be  cured  of  his 
delirious  ecstasies,  by  reading  human  sentiments  in  human  lan- 
guage, by  scenes  from  which  a  hermit  may  estimate  the  trans- 

1  Hyv  per  bbV  ic  al.  exaggerating  or  diminishing  greatly. 


380  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

actions  of  the  world,  and  a  confessor  predict  the  progress  of 
the  passions. 

6.  Shakspeare's  plays  are  not,  in  the  rigorous  and  critical 
sense,  either  tragedies  or  comedies,  but  compositions  of  a  dis- 
tinct kind  ;  exhibiting  the  real  state  of  sublunary  nature,  which 
partakes  of  good  and  evil,  joy  and  sorrow,  mingled  with  endless 
variety  of  proportion,  and  innumerable  modes  of  combination  ; 
and  expressing  the  course  of  the  world,  in  which  the  loss  of  one 
is  the  gain  of  another  ;  in  which,  at  the  same  time,  the  reveler 
is  hasting  to  his  wine,  and  the  mourner  burying  his  friend  ;  in 
which  the  malignity  of  one  is  sometimes  defeated  by  the  frolic 
of  another  ;  and  many  mischiefs  and  many  benefits  arc  done 
and  hindered  without  design. 

7.  Shakspeare  has  united  the  powers  of  exciting  laughter  and 
sorrow  not  only  in  one  mind,  but  in  one  composition.  Almost 
all  his  plays  are  divided  between  serious  and  ludicrous  charac- 
ters, and,  in  the  successive  evolutions  of  the  design,  sometimes 
produce  seriousness  and  sorrow,  and  sometimes  levity  and 
laughter.  That  this  is  a  practice  contrary  to  the  rules  of  criti- 
cism will  be  readily  allowed  ;  but  there  is  alway  an  appeal  open 
from  criticism  to  nature.  The  end  of  writing  is  to  instruct ; 
the  end  of  poetry  is  to  instruct  by  pleasing.  That  the  mingled 
drama  may  convey  all  the  instruction  of  tragedy  or  comedy  can 
not  be  denied,  because  it  includes  both  in  its  alternations  of  ex- 
hibition, and  approaches  nearer  than  either  to  the  appearance 
of  life,  by  showing  how  great  machinations '  and  slender  designs 
may  promote  or  obviate  one  another,  and  the  high  and  the  low 
cooperate  in  the  general  system  by  unavoidable  concatenation.' 

8.  The  force  of  his  comic  scenes  has  suffered  little  diminution 
from  the  changes  made  by  a  century  and  a  half,  in  manners  or 
in  words.  As  his  personages  act  upon  principles  arising  from 
genuine  passion,  very  little  modified  by  particular  forms,  their 
pleasures  and  vexations  are  communicable  to  all  times  and  to  all 
places  ;  they  are  natural,  and  therefore  durable.3  The  adventi- 
tious peculiarities  of  personal  habits  are  only  superficial  dyes, 
bright  and  pleasing  for  a  littlo  while,  yet  soon  fading  to  a  dim 

.    .  .  t. 

1  Machination,   (mak"*  i  na'  shun),        2  Ccn  cat^  c  na'  tion,   connection 

the  act  of  planning  or  contriving  a  by  links;  a  series  of  links  united,  cr 

Bchemc  for  executing  some  purpose,  of  things  depending  on  each  other, 
usually  an  evil  one.  3  Du'  ra  fclc,  lasting. 


BCENE    FROM    KING    RICHARD    III.  33X 

tinct,1  -without  any  remains  of  former  luster  ;  but  the  discrimina- 
tions  of  true  passion  are  the  colors  of  nature  ;  they  pervade  the 
whole  mass,  and  can  only  perish  with  the  body  that  exhibits 
them.  The  accidental  compositions  of  heterogeneous  modes 
are  dissolved  by  tho  chance  which  combined  them  ;  but  the 
uniform  simplicity  of  primitive  qualities  neither  admits  increase, 
nor  suffers  dcc:i}r.  The  sand  heaped  by  one  flood  is  scattered 
by  another  ;  but  the  rock  alway  continues  in  its  place.  The 
stream  of  time,  which  is  continually  washing  the  dis'soluble 
fabrics  of  tho  poets,  passes  without  injury  by  the  adamant  of 
Shakspeare.  Da.  Johnson, 

IV. 

122.     BCENE    FROM    KING    RICHARD    IH. 

BRAKENBURY.  Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to-day  ? 
Clarence.  Oh,  I  have  passed  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  ugly  sights,  of  ghastly  dreams, 
That,  as  I  am  a  Christain  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  'twere  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days, 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  tho  time ! 

Brat.  What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?     I  pray  you  toll  me. 

Clar.  Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  tho  tower, 
And  was  embarked  to  cross  to  Bur'gundy, 
And  in  my  company  my  brother  Glostcr, 
Who  from  my  cabin  tempted  mo  to  walk 
Upon  tho  hatches.     Thence  we  looked  toward  England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lanc'astcr, 
That  had  befallen  us.     As  we  passed  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought  that  Gloster  stumbled  ;  and,  in  falling, 
Struck  me,  that  sought  to  stay  him,  o'verboard, 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 

0  heaven !  Methought  what  pain  it  was  to  drown ! 
WThat  dreadful  noise  of  waters  in  my  ears ! 
What  sights  of  uglv  death  within  mv  eves ! 

1  thought  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks  ; 

1  Ti-ct.  (tlngt),  stain  ;  color:  tinj?. 


382  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnawed  upon  : 

Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 

Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 

All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 

Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls  :  and  in  those  holes 

"Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept, 

As  'twere  in  scorn  of  eyes,  reflecting  gems, 

That  wooed  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep, 

And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattered  by. 

Brak.  Had  you  such  leisure,  in  the  time  of  death, 
To  gaze  upon  the  secrets  of  the  deep  ? 

Clar.  Meth  ought  I  had  ;  and  of ten  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ghost ;  but  still  the  envious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  find  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air  ; 
But  smothered  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.  Awaked  you  not  wifti  this  sore  agony  ? 

Clar.  No,  no !  my  dream  was  lengthened  after  life  ; 
Oh,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 
I  passed,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood, 
With  that  grim  ferryman 1  which  poets  write  of, 
Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 
The  first  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul 
Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick,' 
Who  cried  aloud — "  What  scourge  for  perjury 
Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence?" 
And  so  he  vanished.     Then  came  wandering  by 
A  shadow  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 
Dabbled  in  blood,  and  he  shrieked  out  aloud — 
"Clarence  is  come,— false, fleeting, perjured  Clarence, — 
TJiat  stabbed  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury  ! 
Seize  on  him,  furies  !  take  him  to  your  torments  !" 
With  that,  methought  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 

1  Charon,  (ka'  ron),  who,  according  three    cents    in  value,   which   was 

to  ancient  mythology,  conveyed  in  placed  in  the  mouth  of  every  corpse 

his  boat  the  shades  of  the  dead  across  previous  to  its  burial.     He  is  repre' 

the  rivers  of  the  lower  world.     For  sented  as  an  aged  man,  with  a  dirty 

this  service  he  was  paid  with   an  board  and  a  mean  dress, 

obolus,  a  small  silver  coin  ot  about  ■  Warwick,  (wor7  rik). 


SCENE    FROM    KING    RICHARD    III.  383 

Environed  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 
Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 
I  trembling  waked,  and,  for  a  season  after, 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell ; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 

Brak.  No  marvel,  lord,  that  it  affrighted  you  ; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.  Ah !  Brakenbury,  I  have  done  these  things, 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul, 
For  Edward's  sake  ;  and,  see  how  he  requites  me ! 

0  God !  if  my  deep  prayers  can  not  appease  thee, 
But  thou  wilt  be  avenged  on  my  misdeeds, 

Yet  execute  thy  wrath  on  me  alone  : 

Oh,  spare  my  guiltless  wife,  and  my  poor  children ! — 

1  prithee,  Brakenbury,  stay  by  me  ; 

My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 

Brak.  I  will,  my  lord  ;  God  give  your  grace  good  rest ! — 

[Clarence  reposing  himself  on  a  chair. 

Sorrow  breaks  seasons,  and  reposing  hours, 

Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noon-tide  night. 

Princes  have  but  their  titles  for  their  glories, 

An  outward  honor  for  an  inward  toil : 

And,  for  unfelt  imaginations, 

They  often  feel  a  world  of  restless  cares  : 

So  that  between  their  titles  and  low  name, 

There's  nothing  differs  but  the  outward  fame.       Shakspeare. 

William  Siiakspeake,  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  poets,  was  born  at  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  Warwick  County,  England,  in  April,  1504.  His  father,  John  Shak- 
speare,  a  woolcombcr  or  glover,  rose  to  be  high  bailiff  and  chief  alderman  of 
Stratford.  William  is  supposed  to  have  received  bis  early  education  at  tbe 
grammar-school  in  bis  native  town.  We  have  ho  trace  how  he  was  employed 
between  bis  scbool-days  and  manhood.  Some  bold  that  be  was  an  attorney's 
clerk.  Doubtless  he  was  a  bard,  though  perhaps  an  irregular  student.  He  mar- 
ried Anne  Hatbaway  in  1582,  and  soon  after  became  connected  with  tbe  Black- 
friar's  Theater,  in  London,  to  which  city  be  removed  in  15S6  or  13S7.  Two  years 
subsequent  be  was  a  joint  proprietor  of  that  theater,  with  four  others  below  him 
in  the  list.  Though  we  know  nothing  of  the  date  of  his  lirst  play,  he  had  most 
probably  begun  to  write  long  before  he  left  Stratford.  Of  bis  thirty-seven  plays, 
the  existence  of  thirty-one  is  defined  by  contemporary  records.  He  became  rich 
in  the  theaters,  with  which  he  ceased  to  be  connected  about  1609.  He  had  pre- 
viously purchased  tbe  principal  house  in  his  native  town,  where  he  passed  the 
residue  of  his  life,  and  died  in  April,  1616.  We  can  only  refer  students  that  wish 
to  know  more  of  this  great  poet,  to  his  writings,  an  extended  description  of 
which  is  rendered  unnecessary  by  tbe  selection  immediately  preceding  the  above. 


384  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

V. 

123.    NORVAL. 

Enter  first  Glenalvon  ;  and  soon  after,  Norval.     Tlie  latter  seems 

looting  off  at  some  distant  object. 

aLENALVON.  His  port  I  love  ;  he's  in  a  proper  mood 
To  chide  the  thunder,  if  at  him  it  roared.     [Aside. 
[Aloud.]  Has  Nerval  seen  the  troops? 

Norval.  The  setting  sun 

With  yellow  radiance  lightened  all  the  vale, 
j^nd  as  the  warriors  moved,  each  polished  helm, 
Corslet,  or  spear,  glanced  back  his  gilded  beams. 
The  hill  they  climbed,  and,  halting  at  its  top, 
Of  more  than  mortal  size,  towering  they  seemed 
A  host  angelic,  clad  in  burning  arms. 

Glen.  Thou  talk'st  it  well ;  no  leader  of  our  host 
In  sounds  more  loftv  talks  of  glorious  war. 

Norv.  If  I  should  e'er  acquire  a  leader's  name, 
My  speech  will  be  less  ardent.     Novelty 
Now  prompts  my  tongue,  and  youthful  admiration 
Vents  itself  freely  ;  since  no  part  is  mine 
Of  praise  pertaining  to  the  great  in  arms. 

Glen.  You  wrong  yourself,  brave  sir  ;  your  martial  deed3 
Have  ranked  you  with  the  great.     But  mark  me,  Norval, 
Lord  Randolph's  favor  now  exalts  your  youth 
Above  his  veterans  of  famous  service. 
Let  me,  who  know  these  soldiers,  counsel  you. 
Give  them  all  honor  :  seem  not  to  command, 
Else  they  will  hardly  brook  your  late-sprung  power, 
Which  nor  alliance  props  nor  birth  adorns. 

Norv.  Sir,  I  have  been  accustomed,  all  my  days, 
To  hear  and  speak  the  plain  and  simple  truth  ; 
And  though  I  have  been  told  that  there  are  men 
Who  borrow  friendship's  tongue  to  speak  their  scorn, 
Yet  in  such  language  I  am  little  skilled  ; 
Therefore  I  thank  Glenalvon  for  his  counsel, 
Although  it  sounded  harshly.     Why  remind 
Me  of  my  birth  obscure  ?     Why  slur  my  power 
With  such  contemptuous  terms? 


NORVAL.  380 

Glen.  I  did  not  mean 

To  gall  your  pride,  which  now  I  see  is  great. 

Norv.  My  pride ! 

Glen.  Suppress  it,  as  you  wish  to  prosper  ; 

Your  pride's  excessive.     Yet,  for  Randolph's  sake, 
I  will  not  leave  you  to  its  rash  direction. 
If  thus  you  swell,  and  frown  at  high-bom  men, 
"Will  high-born  men  endure  a  shepherd's  scorn  ? 

Norv.  A  shepherd's  scorn !     [tfrvsees  left 

Glen.   [Right.]  ^Vhy  yes,  if  you  presume 

To  bend  on  soldiers  those  disdainful  eyes 
As  if  you  took  the  measure  of  their  minds, 
And  said  in  secret,  You're  no  match  for  me, 
What  will  become  of  you  ? 

Nerv.  Hast  thou  no  fears  for  thy  presumptuous  self  ? 

Glen.  Ha !  dost  thou  threaten  me  ? 

Norv.  Didst  thou  not  hear  ? 

Glen.  Unwillingly  I  did  ;  a  nobler  foe 
Had  not  been  questioned  thus  ;  but  such  as  thou — 

Norv.  "Whom  dost  thou  think  me  ? 

Glen.  Norval. 

Norv.  So  I  am  ; 

And  who  is  Norval  in  Glenalvon's  eyes? 

Glen.  A  peasant's  son,  a  wandering  beggar  boy  ; 
At  best  no  more,  even  if  he  speaks  the  truth. 

Norv.  False  as  thou  art,  dost  thou  suspect  my  truth  ? 

Glen.  Thy  truth !  thou'rt  ail  a  lie  ;  and  basely  false 
Is  the  vain-glorious  tale  thou  told'st  to  Randolph. 

Norv.  If  I  were  chained,  unarmed,  or  bedrid  old, 
Perhaps  I  should  revile  ;  but,  as  I  am, 
I  have  no  tongue  to  rail.     The  humble  Norval 
Is  of  a  race  who  strive  not  but  with  deeds.     [Crosses  It. 
Did  I  not  fear  to  freeze  thy  shallow  valor, 
And  make  thee  sink  too  soon  beneath  my  Bioord, 
I'd  tell  thee — what  thou  art.     I  know  thee  well. 

Glen.   [L.~]  Dost  thou  not  know  Glenalvon  born  to  command 
Ten  thousand  slaves  like  thee  ? 

Norv.  Villain,  no  more ! 

Draw,  and  defend  thv  life.     I  did  desnm 
To  have  defied  thee  in  another  cause  ; 

17 


386  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

But  heaven  accelerates  its  vengeance  on  thee. 
Now  for  my  own  and  Lady  Randolph's  wrongs ! 

[Both  draw  their  swords. 
Enter  Lord  Randolph,  R. 

Lord  Randolph.  Hold!  I  command  you  both !  the  man  that  stirs 
Makes  me  his  foe. 

Norv.  Another  voice  than  thine 
That  threat  had  vainly  sounded,  noble  Randolph. 

Glen.  Hear  him,  my  lord  ;  he's  wondrous  condescending ! 
Mark  the  humility  of  shepherd  Norval ! 

Norv.  Now  you  may  scoff  in  safety.   [Both  sheathe  their  swords. 

Lord  R.   [R.]  Speak  not  thus, 

Taunting  each  other,  but  unfold  to  me 
The  cause  of  quarrel ;  then  I  judge  betwixt  you. 

Norv.  Nay,  my  good  lord,  though  I  revere  you  much. 
My  cause  I  plead  not,  nor  demand  your  judgment. 
I  blush  to  speak  ;  and  will  not,  can  not  speak 
The  opprobrious  words  that  I  from  him  have  borne. 
To  the  liege  lord  of  my  dear  native  land 
I  owe  a  subject's  homage  ;  but  even  him 
And  his  high  arbitration  I'd  reject! 
Within  my  bosom  reigns  another  lord — 
Honor !  sole  judge  and  umpire  of  itself. 
If  my  free  speech  offend  you,  noble  Randolph, 
Revoke  your  favors,  and  let  Norval  go 
Hence  as  he  came  ;  alone — but  not  dishonored ! 

Lord  R.  Thus  far  I'll  mediate  with  impartial  voice  : 
The  ancient  foe  of  Caledonia's  land 
Now  waves  his  banner  6'er  her  frighted  fields  ; 
Suspend  your  purpose  till  your  country's  arms 
Repel  the  bold  invader  ;  then  decide 
The  private  quarrel. 

Glen.  I  agree  to  this. 

Norv.  And  I.  [Lord  R.  retires. 

Glen.  Norval, 

Let  not  our  variance  mar  the  social  hour, 
Nor  wrong  the  hospitality  of  Randolph. 
Nor  frowning  anger,  nor  yet  wrinkled  hate, 
Shall  stain  my  countenance.     Smooth  thou  thy  brow  ; 
Nor  let  our  strife  disturb  the  gentle  dame. 


SCENE    FROM    CATILINE.  387 

Korv.  Think  not  so  lightly,  sir,  of  my  resentment : 

When  we  contend  again,  our  strife  is  mortal. 

[Exeunt  Glln.,  Nobv. 

Home. 

John  Home,  author  of  "  Douglas"  and  various  other  tragedies,  "was  born  at 
Lcith,  Scotland,  In  1722.  lie  entered  the  Church,  and  succeeded  Blair,  author 
of  "The  Grave,"  as  minister  of  Athelstaneford.  After  writing  "  Douglas,"  60 
violent  a  storm  was  raised  bj  the  fact  that  a  Presbyterian  minister  had  written 
a  play,  that  he  was  obliged  to  resign  his  living.  Lord  Bute  rewarded  him  with 
the  sinecure  office  of  conservator  of  Scots  privileges  at  Campvere,  and  on  the 
accession  of  George  III.,  in  17G0,  he  secured  a  pension  for  the  poet  of  £300  per 
annum.  With  an  income  of  some  £G00,  and  the  friendship  of  David  Hume, 
Blair,  Robertson,  and  other  distinguished  men,  Home's  life  was  passed  in  happy 
tranquillity.     He  died  in  1808,  aged  eighty-six. 

VI. 

124.     SCENE    FROM    CATILINE. 

[In  the  Senate.  ] 

CICERO.  Our  long  dispute  must  close.    Take  one  proof  more 
Of  this  rebellion. — Lucius  Catiline l 
Has  been  commanded  to  attend  the  senate. 
He  dares  not  come.     I  now  demand  your  votes ! — 
Is  he  condemned  to  exile  ? 

[Catiline  comes  in  hastily,  and  flings  himself  on  the 
bench  ;  all  the  senators  go  over  to  the  other  side. 
Cicero,   [turning  to  Catiline].     Here  I  repeat  the  charge,  to 
gods  and  men, 
Of  treasons  manifold  ; — that,  but  this  day, 
He  has  received  dispatches  from  the  rebels  ; 
That  he  has  leagued  with  deputies  from  Gaul 
To  seize  the  province  ;  nay,  has  levied  troops, 
And  raised  his  rebel  standard  : — that  but  now 


1  Lucius  Sergius  Catiline,  the  do-  province,  and  frustrated  in  a  conspir- 

scendantof  an  ancient  and  patrician  acy  to  kill  the  new  consuls,  he  or- 

family  in  Rome,  whose  youth  and  ganized  the  extensive  conspiracy  in 

manhood  were  stained  by  every  vice  which  the  scene  here  given  occurs, 

and  crime.     He  was  praetor  in  B.C.  The  history  of  this  conspiracy,  which 

6S,  was  governor  of  Africa  during  ended  by  the  death  of  Catiline,  in  a 

the  following  year,  and  returned  to  decisive  battle  fought  early  in  G"2, 

Rome  in  66,  to  sue  for  the  consulship,  has  been  written  by  Sallust.    He  was 

Disqualified  for  a  candidate,  by  an  a  man  of  great  mental  and  physical 

impeachment  for  oppression  in  his  powers,  without  moral  qualities. 


388  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

A  meeting  of  conspirators  was  held 
Under  his  roof,  with  mystic  rites,  and  oaths, 
Pledged  round  the  body  of  a  murdered  slave. 
To  these  he  has  no  answer. 

Catiline,   [rising  calmly].     Conscript  fathers! 
I  do  not  rise  to  waste  the  night  in  words ; 
Let  that  plebe'ian  l  talk  ;  'tis  not  my  trade  ; 
But  here  I  stand  for  right — let  him  show  proofs — 
For  Roman  right ;  though  none,  it  seems,  dare  stand 
To  take  their  share  with  me.     Ay,  cluster  there, 
Cling  to  your  masters  ;  judges,  Romans — slaves! 
His  charge  is  false  ;  I  dare  him  to  his  proofs. 
You  have  my  answer.     Let  my  actions  speak ! 

Cic.  [interrupting  him].  Deeds  shall  convince  you !     Has  the 
traitor  done  ? 

Cat.  But  this  I  will  avow,  that  I  have  scorned, 
And  still  do  scorn,  to  hide  my  sense  of  wrong  : 
"Who  brands  me  on  the  forehead,  breaks  my  sword, 
Or  lays  the  bloody  scourge  upon  my  back, 
"Wrongs  me  not  half  so  much  as  he  who  shuts 
The  gates  of  honor  on  me, — turning  out 

The  Roman  from  his  birthright ;  and  for  what  ?  [Looking  round. 
To  fling  your  offices  to  every  slave  ; 
Vipers  that  creep  where  man  disdains  to  climb  ; 
And  having  wound  their  loathsome  track  to  the  top 
Of  this  huge  moldering  monument  of  Rome, 
Hang  hissing  at  the  nobler  man  below. 

Cic.  This  is  his  answer !     Must  I  bring  more  proofs  ? 
Fathers,  you  know  there  lives  not  one  of  us, 
But  lives  in  peril  of  his  midnight  sword. 
Lists  of  proscription  have  been  handed  round, 
In  which  your  general  properties  are  made 
Your  murderer's  hire. 

[A  cry  is  heard  without — "  More  prisoners  /"  An  officer  enters 
with  letters  for  Cicero  ;  who,  after  glancing  at  them,  sends 
them  round  the  Senate.     Catiline  is  strongly  perturbed. 

Cic.  Fathers  of  Rome !     If  man  can  be  convinced 
By  proof,  as  clear  as  daylight,  here  it  is ! 

1  Plebeian,  (pie  be'  yan),  one  of  the  common  people  or  lower  ranks  of 
men  ; — usually  applied  to  the  common  people  of  ancient  Rome. 


SCENE    FROM    CATILINE.  389 

* 

Look  on  these  letters !     Here's  a  deep-laid  plot 
To  wreck  the  provinces  :  a  solemn  league, 
Made  with  all  form  and  circumstance.     The  time 
Is  desperate, — all  the  slaves  are  up  ; — Rome  shakes ! 
The  heavens  alone  can  tell  how  near  our  graves 
We  stand  even  here! — The  name  of  Catiline 
I3  foremost  in  the  league.     He  was  their  king. 
Tried  and  convicted  traitor !  go  from  Rome ! 

Cat.   [haughtily  rising].  Come,  consecrated  lictors,  from  your 
thrones  :  [  To  the  Senate. 

Fling  down  your  scepters  : — take  the  rod  and  ax, 
And  make  the  murder  as  you  make  the  law. 

Cic.  [interrupting  him].  Give  up  the  record  of  his  banishment. 

[  To  an  officer. 
[TJie  officer  gives  it  to  the  Consul.] 

Cat.  Banished  from  Rome !     What's  banished,  but  set  free 
From  daily  contact  of  the  things  I  loathe  ? 
"  Tried  and  convicted  traitor !"     Who  says  this  ? 
Who'll  prove  it,  at  his  peril,  on  my  head  ? 
Banished — I  thank  you  for  't.     It  breaks  my  chain  ! 
I  held  some  slack  allegiance  till  this  hour — 
But  now  my  sword's  my  own.     Smile  on,  my  lords ! 
I  scorn  to  count  what  feelings,  withered  hopes, 
Strong  provocations,  bitter,  burning  wrongs, 
I  have  within  my  heart's  hot  cells  shut  up, 
To  leave  you  in  your  lazy  dignities. 
But  here  I  stand  and  scoff  you  :  here  I  fling 
Hatred  and  full  defiance  in  vour  face. 
Your  Consul's  merciful.     For  this,  all  thanks. 
He  dares  not  touch  a  hair  of  Catiline. 

[TJie  Consul  reads]  : — £k  Lucius  Sergius  Catiline:  by  the 
decree  of  the  Senate,  you  are  declared  an  enemy  and 
alien  to  the  State,  and  banished  from  the  territory  of 
the  Commonwealth." 

TJie  Consul.  Lictors,  drive  the  traitor  from  the  temple ! 

Cat.   [furious]:  "Traitor!"  I  go— but  I  return.     This— trial! 
Here  I  devote  your  Senate !     I've  had  wrongs 
To  stir  a  fever  in  the  blood  of  age, 
Or  make  the  infant's  sinews  strong  as  steel. 
This  day's  the  birth  of  sorrows ! — this  hour's  work 


390  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

"Will  breed  proscriptions  : — look  to  your  hearths,  my  lords ! 
For  there,  henceforth,  shall  sit,  for  household  gods, 
Shapes  hot  from  Tartarus ! ' — all  shames  and  crimes  1 
Wan  Treachery,  with  his  thirsty  dagger  drawn  ; 
Suspicion,  poisoning  his  brother's  cup  ; 
Naked  Rebellion,  with  the  torch  and  ax, 
Making  his  wild  sport  of  your  blazing  thrones  ; 
Till  Anarchy  comes  down  on  you  like  Night, 
And  Massacre  seals  Rome's  eternal  grave ! 

[  TJw  Senators  rise  in  tumult  and  cry  out. 
Go,  enemy  and  parricide,  from  Rome ! 

Cic.  Expel  him,  lictors !     Clear  the  Senate-house ! 

( They  surround  him. 
Cat.   [struggling  through  them].  I  go,  but  not  to  leap  the  gulf 

alone. 
I  go — but  when  I  come,  'twill  be  the  burst 
Of  ocean  in  the  earthquake — rolling  back 
In  swift  and  mountainous  ruin.     Fare  you  well ! 
You  build  my  funeral-pile,  but  your  best  blood 
Shall  quench  its  flame.     Back,  slaves!     [To  the  hclors.] — I  will 

return!  [He  rushes  out.]  Croly. 

George  Ckoly,  LL.D.,  for  many  years  rector  of  St.  Stephens,  TValbrook, 
London,  was  born  in  Ireland,  toward  the  close  of  the  last  century,  and  was  edu- 
cated at  Trinity  College,  Dublin.  Talented,  and  astonishingly  industrious,  he 
wrote  much  both  in  prose  and  verse.  Among  his  productions  are  his  tragedy  of 
"  Catiline ;"  his  comedy  of  "  Pride  shall  have  a  Fall ;"  "  Salathiel,"  a  romance  ; 
"Political  Life  of  Burke;"  "Tales  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard,"  and  "Marston." 
He  was  a  correct  and  elegant  poet.  His  prose  style  is  clear,  rich,  idiomatic,  and 
at  times  remarkably  eloquent.    He  died  in  18G0. 


SECTION     XXIII. 

I. 

125.  SELECT  PASSAGES  IN  VERSE. 

I.    PATRIOTISM.— Scott.  * 

BREATHES  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 
"  This  is  my  own — my  native  land !" 


1  Tar'  ta  rus,  in  Homer's  Iliad,  a     Hades  as  heaven  is  above  the  earth, 
place  beneath  the  earth,  as  far  below    and  closed  by  iron  gates.  Later  poets 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE.  391 

Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned, 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ! 
For  him  no  minstrel's  raptures  swell. 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, — 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentered  all  in  self, 
Living  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung. 

II.    AMBITION.— Byuon. 
He  who  ascends  to  mountain-tops  shall  find 

The  loftiest  peaks  most  wrapt  in  clouds  and  snow  : 
He  who  surpasses  or  subdues  mankind 

Must  look  down  on  the  hate  of  those  below. 
Though  high  above  the  sun  of  glory  glow, 

And  far  beneath  the  earth  and  ocean  spread, 
Round  him  are  icy  rocks,  and  loudly  blow 

Contending  tempests  on  his  naked  head  ; 
And  thus  reward  the  toils  which  to  those  summits  led. 

III.    INDEPENDENCR-Thomsoh. 

I  care  not,  Fortune,  what  you  me  deny  ; 

You  can  not  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace  ; 
You  can  not  shut  the  windows  of  the  skv, 

Through  which  Aurora '  shows  her  brightening  face  ; 

You  can  not  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace 
The  woods  and  lawns,  by  living  stream,  at  eve  : 

Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibers  brace, 
And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave  : 
Of  Fancy,  Reason,  Virtue,  naught  can  me  bereave ! 

describe  tliis  as  the  place  of  punish-  Tithonus,  and,  on  a  chariot  drawn  by 

ment  in  the  lower  world ;  also  as  the  swift  horses  Lampus  and  Phae- 

Hades,  or  the  lower  world  in  general,  thon,  ascended  up  to  heaven  from 

1  Aurora,  (a  r6'  ra),  the  goddess  of  the  river  Oceanus,  to  announce  the 

the  morning  red.     It  is  said,  in  my-  coming  light  of  the  sun  to  gods  as 

thology,  at  the  close  of  every  night  well  as  to  mortals  :  hence,  the  dawa- 

Bhe  rose  from  the  couch  of  her  spouse,  ing  light ;  the  morning. 


392  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

IV.    THE    CAPTIVE'S    DREAMS.— Mrs.   Hkmaks, 
I  dream  of  all  things  free !  of  a  gallant,  gallant  bark, 
That  sweeps  through  storm  and  sea  like  an  arrow  to  its  mark  ; 
Of  a  stag  that  o'er  the  hills  goes  bounding  in  its  glee  ; 
Of  a  thousand  flashing  rills, — of  all  things  glad  and  free. 
I  dream  of  some  proud  bird,  a  bright-eyed  mountain  king  : 
In  my  visions  I  have  heard  the  rushing  of  his  wing. 
I  follow  some  wild  river,  on  whose  breast  no  sail  may  be  ; 
Dark  woods  around  it  shiver, — I  dream  of  all  things  free  : 
Of  a  happy  forest  child,  with  the  fawns  and  flowers  at  play, 
Of  an  Indian  midst  the  wild,  with  the  stars  to  guide  his  way  ; 
Of  a  chief  his  warriors  leading  ;  of  an  archer's  greenwood  tree  : 
My  heart  in  chains  is  bleeding,  and  I  dream  of  all  things  free ! 

V.    WILLIAM    TELL.-Brtant. 
Chains  may  subdue  the  feeble  spirit,  but  thee, 

Tell,  of  the  iron  heart !  they  could  not  tame ! 

For  thou  wert  of  the  mountains  ;  they  proclaim 
The  everlasting  creed  of  liberty. 
That  creed  is  written  on  the  untrampled  snow, 

Thundered  by  torrents  which  no  power  can  hold, 

Save  that  of  God,  when  he  sends  forth  his  cold, 
And  breathed  by  winds  that  through  the  free  heaven  blow  -• 
Thou,  while  thy  prison  walls  were  dark  around, 

Didst  meditate  the  lesson  Nature  taught, 

And  to  thy  brief  captivity  was  brought 
A  vision  of  thy  Switzerland  unbound. 

The  bitter  cup  they  mingled,  strengthened  thee 

For  the  great  work  to  set  thy  country  free. 

VI.    TELL   ON    SWITZERLAND.— Knowles.' 

Once  Switzerland  was  free!  Wifli  what  a  pride 
I  used  to  walk  these  hills, — look  up  to  Heaven, 
And  bless  God  that  it  was  so !     It  was  free 


1  James  Sheridan  Knowles,  an  lislied,  of  -which,  perhaps,  none  is 
English  poet,  one  of  the  most  sue-  more  deservedly  popular  than  "  Wil- 
cessful  of  modern  actors  and  tragic  liam  Tell,"  from  which  tho  above 
dramatists,  was  born  in  Cork,  Ireland,  was  extracted.  A  few  years  since, 
in  1784.  His  second  play;  "Virgin-  he  became  a  zealous  and  eloquent 
ius,"  appeared  in  1820,  and  had  an  preacheroftheBaptist  denomination, 
extraordinary  run  of  success.  All  his  He  died  at  Torquay,  England,  No- 
plays  have  been  collected  and  repub-  vember  oOth,  186:2. 


SELECT    PASSxiQES    IN    VERSE.  393 

From  end  to  end,  from  cliff  to  lake  'twas  free ! 

Free  as  our  torrents  are,  that  leap  our  rocks, 

And  plow  our  valleys,  without  asking  leave  ; 

Or  as  our  peaks,  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow 

In  very  presence  of  the  regal  sun ! 

How  happy  was  I  in  it  then  !     I  loved 

Its  very  storms.     Ay,  often  have  I  sat 

In  my  boat  at  night,  when  midway  o'er  the  lake 

The  stars  went  out,  and  down  the  mountain  gorge 

The  wind  came  roaring, — I  have  sat  and  eyed 

The  thunder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 

To  see  him  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head, 

And  think  I  had  no  master  save  his  own. — 

You  know  the  jutting  cliff,  round  which  a  track 

Up  hither  winds,  whose  base  is  but  the  brow 

To  such  another  one,  with  scanty  room 

For  two  abreast  to  pass  ?     O'ertaken  there 

Bv  the  mountain  blast,  I've  laid  me  flat  along 

And  while  gust  followed  gust  more  furiously, 

As  if  to  sweep  me  o'er  the  horrid  brink, 

And  I  have  thought  of  other  lands,  whose  storms 

Are  summer  flaws  to  those  of  mine,  and  just 

Have  wished  me  there  ; — the  thought  that  mine  was  free 

Has  checked  that  wish,  and  I  have  raised  my  head, 

And  cried  in  thralldom  to  that  furious  wind, 

Blow  on  !     Tins  is  the  land  of  liberty  ! 

VII.— HOW   SLEEP    THE    BRAVE. -Collins. 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest, 
Bv  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
"When  Spring,  writh  dewy  lingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mold, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 
By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung  ; 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  ; 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell,  a  v/eeping  hermit,  there. 


394  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

VIII.— THE    GREEKS   AT    THERMOPYLAE.— Btkon. 
They  fell  devoted,  but  undying  ; 
The  very  gale  their  names  seemed  sighing  ; 
The  waters  murmured  of  their  name  ; 
The  woods  were  peopled  with  their  fame  ; 
The  silent  pillar,  lone  and  gray, 
Claimed  kindred  with  their  sacred  clay  : 
Their  spirits  wrapped  the  dusky  mountain, 
Their  memory  sparkled  o'er  the  fountain  ; 
The  meanest  rill,  the  mightiest  river, 
Kolled  mingling  with  their  fame  forever. 
Despite  of  every  yoke  she  bears, 
The  land  is  glory's  still  and  theirs. 
Tis  stiU  a  watchword  to  the  earth : 
"When  man  would  do  a  deed  of  worth, 
He  points  to  Greece,  and  turns  to  tread. 
So  sanctioned,  on  the  tyrant's  head ; 
He  looks  to  her,  and  rushes  on 
"Where  life  is  lost,  or  freedom  won. 

II. 

126.     GREECE. 

HE  who  hath  bent  him  o'er  the  dead, 
Ere  the  first  day  of  death  is  fled, 
The  first  dark  day  of  nothingness, 
The  last  of  danger  and  distress, 
Before  Decay's  effacing  fingers 
Have  swept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers, 
And  marked  the  mild,  angelic  air, 
The  rapture  of  repose,  that's  there, 
The  fixed  yet  tender  traits  that  streak 
The  languor  of  the  placid  cheek — 

And  but  for  that  sad,  shrouded  eye, 
That  fires  not,  wins  not,  weeps  not,  now, 
And  but  for  that  chill,  changeless  brow, 

"Where  cold  obstruction's  apathy 
Appalls  the  gazing  mourner's  heart, 
As  if  to  him  it  could  impart 
The  doom  he  dreads,  yet  dwells  upon^ 


GREECE.  395 

Yes,  but  for  these,  and  these  alone, 

Some  moments,  ay,  one  treacherous  hour, — 

He  still  might  doubt  the  tyrant's  power  ;    . 

So  fair,  so  calm,  so  softly  sealed, 

The  first — last  look  by  death  revealed ! 

2.  Such  is  the  aspect  of  this  shore  ; 

^  Tis  Greece — but  living  Greece  no  more ! 

*-*  So  coldly  sweet,  so  deady  fair, 

f*  We  start — for  soul  is  wanting  there, 

n^  Hers  is  the  loveliness  in  death, 

That  parts  not  quite  with  parting  breath  ; 
But  beauty  with  that  fearful  blooni, 
That  hue  which  haunts  it  to  the  tomb — 
Expression's  last  receding  ray, 
A  gilded  halo  hovering  round  decay, 
The  farewell  beam  of  feeling  past  away ! 
Spark  of  that  flame,  perchance  of  heavenly  birth, 
"Which  gleams,  but  warms  no  more  its  cherished  earth. 

3.  Clime  of  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 
Whose  land  from  plain  to  mountain-cave 
Was  Freedom's  home  or  Glory's  grave  1 
Shrine  of  the  mighty !  can  it  be 
That  this  is  all  remains  of  thee  ? 
Approach,  thou  craven,  crouching  slave  I 

Say,  is  not  this  Thermopylae  ? l 
These  waters  blue  that  round  you  lave, 

O  servile  offspring  of  the  free — 
Pronounce  what  sea,  what  shore  is  this. 
The  gulf,  the  rock,  of  Salamis !  ■ 
These  scenes,  their  story  not  unknown, 


i  Ther  m5p'  y  las,  a  famous  pass  of  Xerxes,  B.  c.  489. 
of  Greece,  about  five  miles  long,  and        3  SaT  a  mis,  an  island  of  Greece, 

originally  from   50   to  GO   yards  in  in  the  Gulf  of  iEgina,  ten  miles  W 

width.     It  is  hemmed  in  on  one  side  of  Athens.     Its  shape  is  very  irreg 

by  precipitous  rocks  of  from  400  to  ular ;    the   surface  is  mountainous 

GOO  feet  in  height,  and  on  the  other  and  wooded  in  some  parts.     In  the 

side  by  the  sea  and  an  impassable  channel  between   it  and   the  main 

morass.      Here    Leonidas    and    his  land,  the  Greeks,  underThemistocles, 

three  hundred  Spartans  died  in  de-  gained  a  memorable  naval  victory 

fending  Greece  against  the  invasion  over  the  Persians,  b.  c.  480. 


396  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Arise,  and  make  again  your  own  : 
Snatch  from  the  ashes  of  your  sires 
The  embers  of  their  former  fires  ; 
And  he  who  in  the  strife  expires 
Will  add  to  theirs  a  name  of  fear, 
That  Tyranny  shall  quake  to  hear, 
And  leave  his  sons  a  hope,  a  fame, 
They  too  will  rather  die  than  shame  ; 
For  Freedom's  battle  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  by  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  6ft,  is  ever  won. 

4.  Bear  witness,  Greece,  thy  living  page ! 
Attest  it,  many  a  deathless  age ! 
While  kings,  in  dusty  darkness  hid, 
Have  left  a  nameless  pyramid, 
Thy  heroes,  though  the  general  doom 
Hath  swept  the  column  from  their  tomb, 
A  mightier  monument  command — 
The  mountains  of  their  native  land ! 
There  points  thy  Muse,  to  stranger's  eye, 
The  graves  of  those  that  can  not  die ! 
'Twere  long  to  tell,  and  sad  to  trace, 
Each  step  from  splendor  to  disgrace  : 
Enough,  no  foreign  foe  could  quell 
Thy  soul,  till  from  itself  it  fell. 
Yes !  s«slf-abasement  paved  the  way 
To  villain-bonds  and  despot  sway.  Bykojj. 


A' 


m. 

127.     SONG    OF    THE    GREEKS,    1822. 

GAIN  to  the  battle,  Achaians ! J 
Our  hearts  bid  the  tyrants  defiance  ; 
Our  land, — the  first  garden  of  Liberty's  tree, — 
It  has  been,  and  shall  yet  be,  the  land  of  the  free  ; 
For  the  cross  of  our  faith  is  replanted, 
The  pale  dying  crescent  is  daunted, 

m    '  ■-  ....  -     i  -     -  ■  ,--.    i  ■■■-■■  ..I,  —  , 

1  Achaians,  (a  ka'  anz),  the  people  of  Achaia,  a  department  of  the  king- 
dom of  Greece. 


SONG    OF    THE    GREEKS,    1822.  397 

And  we  march  that  the  footprints  of  Ivla'homet's '  slaves 
May  be  washed  out  in  blood  from  our  forefathers'  graves. 
Their  spirits  are  hovering  o'er  us, 
And  the  sicord  shall  to  glory  restore  us. 

2.  Ah !  what  though  no  succor  advances, 
Nor  Christendom's  chivalrous  lances 

Arc  stretched  in  our  aid  ?— Be  the  combat  our  own ! 

And  we'll  perish  or  conquer  more  proudly  alone  ; 
For  we've  sworn  by  our  country's  assaulters, 
By  the  virgins  they've  dragged  from  our  altars, 

By  our  massacred  patriots,  our  children  in  chains, 

By  our  heroes  of  old,  and  their  blood  in  our  veins, 
That,  living,  we  icill  be  victorious, 
Or  that,  dying,  our  deaths  shall  be  glorious. 

3.  A  breath  of  submission  we  breathe  not  : 

The  sword  that  we've  drawn  we  will  sheathe  not : 
Its  scabbard  is  left  where  our  martyrs  are  laid, 
And  the  vengeance  of  ages  has  whetted  its  blade. 

Earth  may  hide,  waves  engulf,  fire  consume  us  ; 

But  they  shall  not  to  slavery  doom  us  : 
If  they  rule,  it  shall  be  6'er  our  ashes  and  graves  : — ■ 
But  we've  smote  them  already  with  lire  on  the  waves, 

And  new  triumphs  on  land  are  before  us  ; — 

To  the  charge ! — Heaven's  banner  is  o'er  us. 

4.  This  day — shall  ye  blush  for  its  story  ; 
Or  brighten  your  lives  with  its  glory  ? — 

Our  women — oh,  say,  shall  they  shriek  in  despair, 

Or  embrace  us  from  conquest,  with  wreaths  in  their  hair  ? 

Accursed  may  his  memory  blacken, 

If  a  coward  there  be  that  would  slacken 
Till  we've  trampled  the  turban,  and  shown  ourselves  worth 
Being  sprung  from,  and  named  for,  the  god-like  of  earth. 

Strike  home ! — and  the  world  shall  revere  us 

As  heroes  descended  from  heroes. 

1  Ma'  horn  et,  a  false  prophet  of  and  whose  authority  at  the  present 

Arabia,  who,  by  the  mere  force  of  time  is  acknowledged  by  nearly  two 

his    genius    and    his    convictions,  hundred  millions  of  souls.     He  was 

subdued    many  nations  to  his    re-  born  in  570,  and  died  on  the  8th  of 

ligion,  his  laws  and    his   scepter;  July,  C32. 


398  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5.  Old  Greece  lightens  up  with  emotion ! 
Her  inlands,  her  isles  of  the  ocean, 
Fanes  rebuilt,  and  fair  towns,  shall  with  jubilee  ring, 
And  the  Nine  shall  new  hallow  their  Helicon's 1  spring. 
Our  hearths  shall  be  kindled  in  gladness, 
That  were  cold,  and  extinguished  in  sadness  ; 
Whilst  our  maidens  shall  dance  with  their  white  waving  arms, 
Singing  joy  to  the  brave  that  delivered  their  charms, — 
When  the  blood  of  yon  Mussulman  cravens 
Shall  have  crimsoned  the  beaks  of  our  ravens ! 

Thomas  Campbell. 

IV. 

128.     MARCO    BOZZARIS. 

AT  midnight,  in  his  guarded  tent, 
The  Turk  was  dreaming  of  the  hour 
When  Greece  her  knee  in  suppliance  bent, 

Should  tremble  at  his  power  ; 
In  dreams,  through  camp  and  court,  he  bore 
The  trophies  of  a  conqueror  ; 

In  dreams,  his  song  of  triumph  heard  ; 
Then  wore  his  monarch's  signet  ring  ; 
Then  pressed  that  monarch's  throne, — a  king  ; 
As  wild  his  thoughts,  and  gay  of  wing, 

As  Eden's  garden  bird. 

2.  At  midnight,  in  the  forest  shades, 

Bozzaris  *  ranged  his  Suliote  band, 
True  as  the  steel  of  their  tried  blades, 

Heroes  in  heart  and  hand. 
There  had  the  Persian's  thousands  stood, 
There  had  the  glad  earth  drunk  their  blood 


1  Hel'  i  con,  a  famous  mountain  here   described,   in   which,   with   a 

in  Bceotia,  in  Greece,  from  which  handful  of  five  hundred  Suliotes,  at 

flows  a  fountain,  and  where  resided  midnight,    August    20th,   1823,   he 

the  Muses.  surprised  a  Turkish  army  of  twenty 

8  Marco  Bozzaris,  (bot'  sa  ris),  a  thousand  men,  fought  his  way  to  the 

Sulioteof  Arnaout  and  Greek  descent,  very  tent  of  the  commander-in-chief, 

was  born  in  1789.     He  was  early  in-  and  was  killed  by  a  random  shot, 

volved  in  revolutionary  movements,  while  making  the  pasha  prisoner. 

His  most  brilliant  exploit  is  the  one  The  victory,  however,  was  complete. 


MARCO    BOZZARIS.  399 

On  old  Platsea's l  day  ; 
And  now,  there  breathed  that  haunted  air 
The  sons  of  sires  who  conquered  there, 
With  arm  to  strike,  and  soul  to  dare, 

As  quick,  as  far  as  they. 

3.  An  hour  passed  on — the  Turk  awoke  ; 

That  bright  dream  was  his  last ; 
He  woke  to  hear  his  sentries  shriek, 
"  To  arms ! — they  come  !  the  Greek !  the  Greek  ! 
He  woke — to  die  midst  flame,  and  smoke, 
And  shout,  and  groan,  and  saber-stroke, 

And  death-shots  falling  thick  and  fast 
As  lightnings  from  the  mountain-cloud ; 
And  heard,  with  voice  as  trumpet  loud, 

Bozzaris  cheer  his  band  : 
"  Strike — till  the  last  armed  foe  expires  ; 
Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires  ; 
STRIKE — for  the  green  graves  of  your  sires  ; 

God — and  your  native  land ! 

4.  They  fought — like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  that  ground  with  Moslem  slain  ; 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile,  when  rang  their  proud  huzza, 

And  the  red  field  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close, 
Calmly  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 

5.  Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death  ! 

Come  to  the  mother,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath  ; 

Come  when  the  blessed  seals 
That  close  the  pestilence  are  broke, 
And  crowded  cities  wail  its  stroke  ; 
Come  in  consumption's  ghastly  form, 
The  earthquake's  shock,  the  ocean's  storm  ; 


1  Plataea,  (pld  to'  a),  a  ruined  city  feated  and  nearly  annihilated  the 
of  Greece.  Near  it,  B.  c.  479,  the  grand  Persian  army,  under  Mar- 
Greeks,  under  Pausanias,  totally  de-    donius,  who  was  killed  in  the  action. 


400  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER 

Come  when  the  heart  beats  high  and  warm 
With  banquet-song,  and  dance,  and  wine, — 

And  thou  art  terrible  ! — The  tear, 

The  groan,  the  knell,  the  pall,  the  bier  ; 

And  all  we  know,  or  dream,  or  fear, 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

6.  But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word  ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Bozzaris  !  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 
Best  thee  :  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 

Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

We  tell  thy  doom  without  a  sigh  ; 
For  thou  art  Freedom's  now,  and  Fame's, — 
One  of  the  few,  the  immortal  names, 

That  were  not  born  to  die !  Halleck. 

Fitz-Giieene  Halleck  was  born  at  Guilford,  in  Connecticut,  August,  1795, 
and  at  the  age  of  eighteen  entered  the  banking-house  of  Jacob  Barker,  in  New 
York,  with  which  he  was  associated  several  years,  susequcntly  performing  the 
duties  of  a  book-keeper  in  the  private  office  of  John  Jacob  Astor.  Soon  after 
the  decease  of  that  noted  millionaire,  in  1848,  he  retired  to  his  birth-place,  where 
he  has  since  resided.  He  evinced  a  taste  for  poetry  and  wrote  verses  at  a  very 
early  period.  "  Twilight,"  his  first  offering  to  the  "  Evening  Post,"  appeared  in 
October,  1818.  The  year  following  he  gained  his  first  celebrity  in  literature  as  a 
town  wit,  by  producing,  with  his  friend  Drake,  several  witty  and  satirical  pieces, 
which  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the  "  Evening  Post"  with  the  signature  of 
Croaker  <fc  Co. ;  and  his  fame  was  fully  established  by  the  publication  of  a  vol- 
ume of  his  poems  in  1827.  His  poetry  is  characterized  by  its  music  and  perfec- 
tion of  versification,  and  its  vigor  and  healthy  sentiment. 


SECTION   XXIV. 
I. 

129.     THE   CLOSING   YEAR 

*t  I  ^IS  midnight's  holy  hour — and  silence  now 

_L    Is  brooding,  like  a  gentle  spirit,  o'er 
The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark  !  on  the  winds 
The  beU's  deep  tones  are  swelling — 'tis  the  knell 


THE    CLOSING    YEAR  401 

Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 

Is  sweeping  past ;  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 

"With  mel'ancholy  light,  the  moonbeams  rest 

Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud  ;  the  air  is  stirred 

As  by  a  mourner's  sigh  ;  and  on  yon  cloud, 

That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 

The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand, — 

Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn  form, 

And  Winter  with  his  aged  locks, — and  breathe, 

In  mournful  cadences,  that  come  abroad 

Like  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 

A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  year, 

Gone  from  the  earth  forever. 

2.  'Tis  a  time 
For  memory  and  for  tears.     "Within  the  deep, 
Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  specter  dim, 
Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time, 
Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  i)oints  its  cold 
And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 
And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away, 
And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 
On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  specter  lifts 
The  eofim-lid  of  Hope,  and  Jo}r,  and  Love, 
And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 

Sweet  forms  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 
O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 

3.  The  year 

Has  gone,  and  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course, 
It  waved  its  scepter  6'er  the  beautiful — 
And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man — and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 
It  trod  the  hall  of  revelrv,  where  thronged 
The  bright  and  joyous — and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard,  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded. 

4.  It  passed  o'er 

The  battle-plain,  where  sicord,  and  spear,  and  shield, 


402  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Flashed  in  the  light  of  mid-day, — and  the  strength 
Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass, 
Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crushed  and  moldering  skeleton.     It  came, 
And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve  ; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  homo 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

5.  Kemorseless  Time ! 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe ! — what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 

His  iron  heart  to  pity  ?     On,  still  on 

He  presses,  and  forever.     The  proud  bird, 

The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 

Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 

The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane, 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 

Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and  sinks  down 

To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag, — but  Time 

Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 

And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 

His  rushing  pinions. 

6.  Revolutions  sweep 

O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow  ;  cities  rise  and  sink, 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water  ;  fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns  ;  mountains  rear 
To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain  ;  new  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Al'pine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations, — and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away, 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void  :  yet  Time — 
Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 


OUR    HONORED    DEAD.  403 

Amid  the  mighty  -wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 

To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 

Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought.  Prentice. 

George  D.  Pkentice  was  born  at  Preston,  in  Connecticut,  December  18th, 
180?,and  was  educated  at  Brown  University,  in  Providence,  where  he  graduated 
in  1823.  In  18:23  he  commenced  "The  New  England  Weekly  Review,"  at  Hart- 
ford, which  he  edited  for  two  years,  when,  resigning  its  management  to  Mr. 
Whitlier,  he  removed  to  Louisville,  Kentucky,  where  he  has  since  conducted 
the  "Journal,"  of  that  city,  one  of  the  most  popular  gazettes  ever  published  in 
this  country.  His  numerous  poetical  writings  have  never  been  published  col- 
lectively. 

H. 

130.     OUR   HONORED   DEAD. 

HOW  bright  are  the  honors  "which  await  those  who  "with 
sacred  fortitude  and  patriot' ic  patience  have  endured  all 
things  that  they  might  save  their  native  land  from  division 
and  from  the  power  of  corruption  !  The  honored  dead !  They 
that  die  for  a  good  cause  are  redeemed  from  death.  Their 
names  are  gathered  and  garnered.  Their  memory  is  precious. 
Each  place  growrs  proud  for  them  who  were  born  there. 

2.  There  is  to  be,  ere  long,  in  every  village  and  in  every 
neighborhood,  a  glowing  pride  in  its  martyred  heroes.  Tablets 
shall  preserve  their  names.  Pious  love  shall  renew  their  in- 
scriptions as  time  and  the  unfeeling  elements  decay  them.  And 
the  national  festivals  shall  give  multitudes  of  precious  names  to 
the  orator's  lips.  Children  shall  grow  up  under  more  sacred 
inspirations,  whose  elder  brothers,  dying  nobly  for  their  coun- 
try, left  a  name  that  honored  and  inspired  all  who  bore  it. 
Orphan  children  shall  find  thousands  of  fathers  and  mothers  to 

ove  and  help  those  whom  dying  heroes  left  as  a  legacy  to  the 
gratitude  of  the  public. 

3.  Oh,  tell  me  not  that  they  are  dead — that  generous  host, 
that  airy  army  of  invisible  heroes  !  They  hover  as  a  cloud  of 
witnesses  above  this  nation.  Are  they  dead  that  yet  speak 
louder  than  we  can  speak,  and  a  more  universal  language  ? 
Axe  they  dead  that  yet  act  ?  Are  they  dead  that  yet  move  upon 
society,  and  inspire  the  people  with  nobler  motives  and  more 
heroic  patriotism  ? 

4.  Ye  that  mourn,  let  gladness  mingle  with  your  tears.  He 
was  your  son  ;  but  now  he  is  the  nation's.     He  made  your 


404  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER 

household  bright :  now  his  example  inspires  a  thousand  house- 
holds. Dear  to  his  brothers  and  sisters,  he  is  now  brother  to 
every  generous  youth  in  the  land.  Before  he  was  narrowed, 
appropriated,  shut  up  to  you.  Now  he  is  augmented,  set  free, 
and  given  to  all.  He  has  died  from  the  family,  that  he  might 
live  to  the  nation.  Not  one  name  shall  be  forgotten  or 
neglected  ;  and  it  shall  by-and-by  be  confessed,  as  of  an  ancient 
hero,  that  he  did  more  for  his  country  by  his  death  than  by  his 
whole  life. 

5.  Neither  are  they  less  honored  who  shall  bear  through  life 
the  marks  of  wounds  and  sufferings.  Neither  ep'aulette  nor 
badge  is  so  honorable  as  wounds  received  in  a  good  cause. 
Many  a  man  shall  envy  him  who  henceforth  limps.  So  strange 
is  the  transforming  power  of  patriotic  ardor,  that  men  shall 
almost  covet  disfigurement.  Crowds  will  give  way  to  hobbling 
cripples,  and  uncover  in  the  presence  of  feebleness  and  help- 
lessness. And  buoyant  children  shall  pause  in  their  noisy 
games,  and  with  loving  reverence  honor  them  whose  hands  can 
work  no  more,  and  whose  feet  are  no  longer  able  to  march 
except  upon  that  journey  which  brings  good  men  to  honor  and 
immortality. 

6.  O  mother  of  lost  children !  set  not  in  darkness  nor  sorrow 
whom  a  nation  honors.  O  mourners  of  the  early  dead !  they 
shall  live  again,  and  live  forever.  Your  sorrows  are  our  glad- 
ness. The  nation  lives,  because  you  gave  it  men  that  loved 
it  better  than  their  own  lives.  And  when  a  few  more  days 
shall  have  cleared  the  perils  from  around  the  nation's  brow, 
and  she  shall  sit  in  unsullied  garments  of  liberty,  with  justice 
upon  her  fore/iead,  love  in  her  eyes,  and  truth  upon  her  lips, 
she  shall  not  forget  those  whose  blood  gave  vital  currents  to 
her  heart,  and  whose  life,  given  to  her,  shall  live  with  her  life 
till  time  shall  be  no  more. 

7.  Every  mountain  and  hill  shall  have  its  treasured  name, 
every  river  shall  keep  some  solemn  title,  every  valley  and  every 
lake  shall  cherish  its  honored  register  ;  and  till  the  mountains 
are  worn  out,  and  the  rivers  forget  to  flow,  till  the  clouds  are 
weary  of  replenishing  springs,  and  the  springs  forget  to  gush, 
and  the  rills  to  sing,  shall  their  names  be  kept  fresh  with  rev- 
erent honors,  which  are  inscribed  upon  the  book  of  National 
Remembrance !  II.  W.  Beecher, 


TIIE    HOLY    DEAD.  405 

in. 

131.     THE    HOLY    DEAD. 

THEY  dread  no  storm  that  lowers, 
No  perished  joys  bewail  ; 
They  pluck  no  thorn-clad  flowers, 
Nor  drink  of  streams  that  fail  : 
There  is  no  tear-drop  in  their  eye, 

No  change  upon  their  brow  ; 
Their  placid  bosom  heaves  no  sigh, 
Though  all  earth's  idols  bow. 

2.  Who  are  so  greatly  blest  ? 

From  whom  hath  sorrow  fled  ? 
Who  share  such  deep,  unbroken  rest, 

"Where  all  things  toil '?     The  dead  ! 
The  holy  dead.     Why  weep  ye  so 

Above  yon  sable  bier  ? 
Thrice  blessed  !  they  have  done  with  woe, 

The  living  claim  the  tear. 

3.  Go  to  their  sleeping  bowers, 

Deck  their  low  couch  of  clay 
With  earliest  spring's  soft  breathing  flowers  ; 

And  when  they  fade  away, 
Think  of  the  amaranth' me  wreath, 

The  garlands  never  dim, 
And  tell  me  why  thou  flv'st  from  death, 

Or  hid'st  thy  friends  from  him. 

4.  We  dream,  but  they  awake  ; 

Dread  visions  mar  our  rest  ; 
Through  thorns  and  snares  our  way  we  take, 

And  yeb  we  mourn  the  blest ! 
For  spirits  round  the  Eternal  Throne 

How  vain  the  tears  we  shed  ! 
They  are  the  living,  they  alone, 

Whom  thus  we  call  the  dead.        Mrs.  Sigourney. 

Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney  was  born  at  Norwich,  Connecticut,  1791.  Her  maiden 
name  was  Lydia  Huntley.  She  was  married  to  Charles  Sigourney  in  1S19.  She 
is  one  of  the  most  voluminous  of  American  female  writers,  and  equally  happy  in 
prose  and  verse.  Her  rare  and  highly  cultivated  intellect,  her  fine  sensibilities, 
and  her  noble  heart,  have  enabled  her,  in  all  her  works,  to  plead  successfully 
the  cause  of  humanity  and  religion.     She  died  at  Ilartford,  Ct.,  June  10th,  1S05. 


406  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

IV. 

132.     DEATH    OF    THE    OLD    TRAPPER. 

PART    FIRST. 

THE  trapper  was  placed  on  a  rude  seat,  which  had  been 
made  with  studied  care,  to  support  his  frame  in  an  upright 
and  easy  attitude.  The  first  glance  of  the  eye  told  his  former 
friends  that  the  old  man  was  at  length  called  upon  to  pay  the 
last  tribute  of  nature.  His  eye  was  glazed,  and  apparently  as 
devoid  of  sight  as  of  expression.  His  features  were  a  little 
more  sunken  and  strongly  marked  than  formerly  ;  but  there, 
all  change,  so  far  as  exterior  was  concerned,  might  be  said  to 
have  ceased. 

2.  His  approaching  end  was  not  to  be  ascribed  to  any  posi- 
tive disease,  but  had  been  a  gradual  and  mild  decay  of  the 
physical  powers.  Life,  it  is  true,  still  lingered  in  his  system  ; 
but  it  was  as  if  at  times  entirely  ready  to  depart,  and  then  it 
would  appear  to  reanimate  the  sinking  form,  reluctant  to  give 
up  the  possession  of  a  tenement  that  had  never  been  corrupted 
by  vice  or  undermined  by  disease.  It  would  have  been  no 
violent  fancy  to  have  imagined  that  the  spirit  fluttered  about 
the  placid  lips  of  the  old  woodsman,  reluctant  to  depart  from  a 
shell  that  had  so  long  given  it  an  honest  and  honorable  shelter. 

3.  His  body  was  placed  so  as  to  let  the  light  of  the  setting 
sun  fall  full  upon  the  solemn  features.  His  head  was  bare,  the 
long,  thin  locks  of  gray  fluttering  lightly  in  the  evening  breeze. 
His  rifle  lay  upon  his  knee,  and  the  other  accouterments  of  the 
chase  were  placed  at  his  side,  within  reach  of  his  hand.  Be- 
tween his  feet  lay  the  figure  of  a  hound,  with  its  head  crouch- 
ing to  the  earth,  as  if  it  slumbered  ;  and  so  j>erfectly  easy  and 
natural  was  its  position,  that  a  second  glance  was  necessary  to 
tell  Middleton  he  saw  only  the  skin  of  Hector,  stuffed,  by  In- 
dian tenderness  and  ingenuity,  in  a  manner  to  represent  the 
living  animal. 

4.  The  old  man  was  reaping  the  rewards  of  a  life  remarkable 
for  temperance  and  activity,  in  a  tranquil  and  placid  death. 
His  vigor,  in  a  manner,  endured  to  the  very  last.  Decay,  when 
it  did  occur,  was  rapid,  but  free  from  pain.  Ho  had  hunted 
with  the  tribe  in  the  spring,  and  even  throughout  most  of  the 


DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  TKAPPER.         407 

summer  ;  when  his  limbs  suddenly  refused  to  perform  their 
customary  offices.  A  sympathizing  weakness  took  possession 
of  all  his  faculties  ;  and  the  Pawnees  believed  they  were  going 
to  lose,  in  this  unexpected  manner,  a  sage  and  counsellor  whom 
they  had  begun  both  to  love  and  respect. 

5.  But,  as  we  have  already  said,  the  immortal  occupant 
seemed  unwilling  to  desert  its  tenement.  The  lamp  of  life 
nickered,  without  becoming  extinguished.  On  the  morning  of 
the  day  on  which  Middleton  arrived,  there  was  a  general  reviv- 
ing of  the  powers  of  the  whule  man.  His  tongue  was  again 
heard  in  wholesome  maxims,  and  his  eye  from  time  to  time 
recognized  the  persons  of  his  friends.  It  merely  proved  to  be 
a  brief  and  final  intercourse  with  the  world,  on  the  part  of  one 
who  had  already  been  considered,  as  to  mental  communion,  to 
have  taken  its  leave  of  it  forever. 

5.  When  he  had  placed  his  guests  in  front  of  the  dying  man, 
Hard-Heart,  after  a  pause,  that  proceeded  as  much  from  sorrow 
as  decorum,  leaned  a  little  forward,  and  demanded — "Does  my 
father  hear  the  words  of  his  son  ?"  "  Speak,"  returned  the 
trapper,  in  tones  that  issued  from  his  chest,  but  which  were 
rendered  awfully  distinct  by  the  stillness  that  reigned  in  the 
place.  "  I  am  about  to  depart  from  the  village  of  the  Loups, 
and  shortly  shall  be  beyond  the  reach  of  your  voice." 

7.  "Let  the  wrise  chief  have  no  cares  for  his  journey,"  con- 
tinued Hard-Heart,  with  an  earnest  solicitude  that  led  him  to 
forget,  for  the  moment,  that  others  were  waiting  to  address  his 
adopted  parent ;  "a  hundred  Loups  shall  clear  his  path  from 
briers."  "Pawnee,  I  die,  as  I  have  lived,  a  Christian  man!" 
resumed  the  trapper,  with  a  force  of  voice  that  had  the  same 
startling  effect  on  his  hearers  as  is  produced  by  the  trumpet, 
when  its  blast  rises  suddenly  and  freely  on  the  air,  after  its  ob- 
structed sounds  have  been  heard  struggling  in  the  distance  : 
"  as  I  came  unto  life  so  will  I  leave  it.  Horses  and  arms  are 
not  needed  to  stand  in  the  presence  of  the  Great  Spirit  of  my 
people.  He  knows  my  color,  and  according  to  my  gifts  will  ho 
judge  my  deeds." 

8.  "  My  father  will  tell  my  young  men  how  many  Mingoes  he 
has  struck,  and  what  acts  of  valor  and  justice  he  has  done,  that 
they  may  know  how  to  imitate  him."  "A  boastful  tongue  is 
not  heard  in  the  heaven  of  a  white  man !"  solemnlv  returned 


408  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

the  old  man.  "  What  I  have  done  He  has  seen.  His  eyes  are 
alway  open.  That  which  has  been  well  done  will  He  remem- 
ber ;  wherein  I  have  been  wrong  will  He  not  forget  to  chastise, 
though  He  will  do  the  same  in  mercy.  No,  my  son,  a  pale-face 
may  not  sing  his  own  praises,  and  hope  to  have  them  accepta- 
ble before  his  God !" 

9.  A  little  disappointed,  the  young  partisan  stepped  modestly 
back,  making  way  for  the  recent  comers  to  approach.  Middle- 
ton  took  one  of  the  meager  hands  of  the  trapper,  and  struggling 
to  command  his  voice,  he  succeeded  in  announcing  his  presence. 
The  old  man  listened  like  one  whose  thoughts  were  dwelling  on 
a  very  different  subject ;  but  when  the  other  Had  succeeded  in 
making  him  understand  that  he  was  present,  an  expression  of 
joyful  recognition  passed  over  his  faded  features.  "I  hope  you 
have  not  so  soon  forgotten  those  whom  you  so  materially 
served!"  Middleton  concluded.  "It  would  pain  me  to  think 
my  hold  on  your  memory  was  so  light." 

10.  "  Little  that  I  have  ever  seen  is  forgotten,"  returned  the 
trapper  :  "  I  am  at  the  close  of  many  weary  days,  but  there  is 
not  one  among  them  all  that  I  could  wish  to  overlook.  I  re- 
member you,  with  the  whole  of  your  company  ;  ay,  and  your 
gran'ther,  that  went  before  you.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come 
back  upon  these  plains  ;  for  I  had  need  of  one  who  speaks  the 
English,  since  little  faith  can  be  put  in  the  traders  of  these  re- 
gions. "Will  you  do  a  favor  to  an  old  and  dying  man  ?" 
"  Name  it,"  said  Middleton  ;  "  it  shall  be  done."  "  It  is  a  far 
journey  to  send  such  trifles,"  resumed  the  old  man,  who  spoke 
at  short  intervals,  as  strength  and  breath  permitted  ;  "a  far  and 
weary  journey  is  the  same  ;  but  kindnesses  and  friendships  are 
things  not  to  be  forgotten.  There  is  a  settlement  among  the 
Otsego  hills— " 

11.  "I  know  the  place,"  interrupted  Middleton,  observing 
that  he  spoke  with  increasing  difficulty  ;  "  proceed  to  tell  me 
what  you  would  have  done."  "  Take  this  rifle,  and  pouch,  and 
horn,  and  send  them  to  the  person  whose  name  is  graven  on  the 
plates  of  the  stock, — a  trader  cut  the  letters  with  his  knife, — for 
it  is  long  that  I  have  intended  to  send  him  such  a  token  of  my 
love  !"  "  It  shall  be  so.  Is  there  more  that  you  could  wish  ?" 
"Little  else  have  I  to  bestow.  My  traps  I  give  to  my  Indian 
son  ;  for  honestly  and  kindly  has  he  kept  his  faith.     Let  him 


DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  TRAPPER.         409 

stand  before  me."     Middleton  explained  to  the  chief  "what  the 
trapper  had  said,  and  relinquished  his  own  place  to  the  other. 

12.  "Pawnee,"  continued  the  old  man,  alway  changing  his 
language  to  suit  the  person  he  addressed,  and  not  unfrequently 
according  to  the  ideas  he  expressed,  "  it  is  a  custom  of  my  people 
for  the  father  to  leave  his  blessing  with  the  son  before  he  shuts 
his  eyes  forever.  This  blessing  I  give  to  you  :  take  it  ;  for  the 
prayers  of  a  Christian  man  will  never  make  the  path  of  a  just 
warrior  to  the  blessed  prairies  either  longer  or  more  tangled. 
May  the  God  of  a  white  man  look  on  your  deeds  with  friendly 
eyes,  and  may  you  never  commit  an  act  that  shall  cause  him  to 
darken  his  face.    I  know  not  whether  we  shall  ever  meet  again. 

13.  "  There  arc  many  traditions  concerning  the  place  of  Good 
Spirits.  It  is  not  for  one  like  me,  old  and  inexperienced  though 
I  am,  to  set  up  my  opinions  against  a  nation's.  You  believe  in 
the  blessed  prairies,  and  I  have  faith  in  the  sayings  of  my 
fathers.  If  both  are  true,  our  parting  will  bo  final  ;  but  if  it 
should  prove  that  the  same  meaning  is  hid  under  different 
words,  we  shall  yet  stand  together,  Pawnee,  before  the  face  of 
your  "Walicondah,  who  will  then  be  no  other  than  my  God. 

14.  "  There  is  much  to  be  said  in  favor  of  both  religions,  for 
each  seems  suited  to  its  own  people,  and  no  doubt  it  was  so  in- 
tended. I  fear  I  have  not  altogether  followed  the  gifts  of  my 
color,  inasmuch  as  I  find  it  a  little  painful  to  give  up  forever  the 
use  of  the  rifle,  and  the  comforts  of  the  chase.  But  then  the 
fault  has  been  my  own,  seeing  that  it  could  not  have  been  His. 
Ay,  Hector,"  he  continued,  leaning  forward  a  little,  and  feeling 
for  the  ears  of  the  hound,  "  our  parting  has  come  at  last,  dog, 
and  it  will  bo  a  long  hunt.  You  have  been  an  honest,  and  a 
bold,  and  a  faithful  hound.  Pawnee,  you  can  not  slay  the  pup 
on  my  grave,  for  where  a  Christian  dog  falls  there  ho  lies  for- 
ever ;  but  you  can  be  kind  to  him  after  I  am  gone,  for  the  love 
you  bear  his  master." 

15.  "  The  words  of  my  father  are  in  my  cars,"  returned  the 
young  partisan,  making  a  grave  and  respectful  gesture  of  assent. 
"  Do  you  hear  what  the  chief  has  promised,  dog  ?"  demanded 
the  trapper,  making  an  effort  to  attract  the  notice  of  the  insen- 
sible effigy  of  his  hound.  Receiving  no  answering  look,  nor 
hearing  any  friendly  whine,  the  old  man  felt  for  the  mouth,  and 

endeavored  to  force  his  hand  between  the  cold  lips.     The  truth 

IS 


410  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

then  flashed  npon  him,  although  he  was  far  from  perceiving  the 
whole  extent  of  the  deception.  Falling  back  in  his  seat,  he  hung 
his  head,  like  one  who  felt  a  severe  and  unexpected  shock. 
Profiting  by  this  momentary  forgetfulness,  two  young  Indians 
removed  the  skin  with  the  same  delicacy  of  feeling  that  had  in- 
duced them  to  attempt  the  pious  fraud, 

V. 

133.     DEATH    OF    THE    OLD    TRAPPER, 

PART   SECOND. 

" rMHK  dog  is  dead,"  muttered  the  trapper,  after  a  pause  of 
JL  many  minutes  ;  "  a  hound  has  his  time  as  well  as  a  man  ; 
and  well  has  he  filled  his  days !  Captain,"  he  added,  making 
an  effort  to  wave  his  hand  for  Middleton,  "  I  am  glad  you  have 
come  ;  for  though  kind,  and  well  meaning  according  to  the  gifts 
of  their  color,  these  Indians  are  not  the  men  to  lay  the  head  of 
a  white  man  in  his  grave.  I  have  been  thinking,  too,  of  this 
dog  at  my  feet  :  it  will  not  do  to  set  forth  the  opinion  that  a 
Christian  can  expect  to  meet  his  hound  again  ;  still  there  can  be 
little  harm  in  placing  what  is  left  of  so  faithful  a  servant  nigh 
the  bones  of  his  master."  "It  shall  be  as  you  desire."  "I'm 
glad  you  think  with  me  in  this  matter.  In  order,  then,  to  save 
labor,  lay  the  pup  at  my  feet ;  or,  for  that  matter,  put  him  side 
by  side.  A  hunter  need  never  be  ashamed  to  be  found  in  com- 
pany with  his  dog !"     "  I  charge  myself  with  your  wish.' 

2.  The  old  man  made  a  long,  and  apparently  a  musing  pause. 
At  times  he  raised  his  eyes  wistfully,  as  if  he  would  again  ad- 
dress Middleton,  but  some  innate  feeling  appeared  alway  to  sup- 
press his  words.  The  other,  who  observed  his  hesitation,  in- 
quired in  a  way  most  likely  to  encourage  him  to  proceed, 
whether  there  was  aught  else  that  he  could  wish  to  have  done. 
"I  am  without  kith  or  kin  in  the  wide  world !"  the  trapper  an- 
swered :  "  when  I  am  gone  there  will  be  an  end  of  my  race. 
We  have  never  been  chiefs  ;  but  honest,  and  useful  in  our  way,  I 
hope  it  can  not  be  denied  we  have  alway  proved  ourselves.  My 
father  lies  buried  near  the  sea,  and  the  bones  of  his  son  will 
whiten  on  the  prairies."  "  Name  the  spot,  and  your  remains  shall 
be  placed  by  the  side  of  your  father,"  interrupted  Middleton. 

3.  "  Not  so,  not  so,  Captain.  Let  me  sleep  where  I  have  lived 


DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  TKAPPER.         411 

— beyond  the  din  of  the  settlements !  Still  I  see  no  need  why 
the  grave  of  an  honest  man  should  be  hid,  like  a  red-skin  in  his 
ambushment.  I  paid  a  man  in  the  settlements  to  make  and  put 
a  graven  stone  at  the  head  of  my  father's  resting-place.  It  was 
of  the  value  of  twelve  beaver-skins,  and  cunningly  and  curiously 
was  it  carved !  Then  it  told  to  all  comers  that  the  body  of  such 
a  Christian  lay  beneath  ;  and  it  spoke  of  his  manner  of  life,  of 
his  years,  and  of  his  honesty.  When  we  had  done  with  the 
Frenchers,  in  the  old  war,  I  made  a  journey  to  the  spot,  in  order 
to  sec  that  all  was  rightly  performed,  and  glad  I  am  to  say,  the 
workman  had  not  forgotten  his  faith." 

4.  "  And  such  a  stone  you  would  have  at  your  grave  ?"  "  I ! 
no,  no,  I  have  no  son  but  Hard-Heart,  and  it  is  little  that  an  In- 
dian knows  of  white  fashions  and  usages.  Besides,  I  am  his 
debtor  already,  seeing  it  is  so  little  I  have  done  since  I  have 
lived  in  his  tribe.  The  rifle  might  bring  the  value  of  such  a 
thing — but  then  I  know"  it  will  give  the  boy  pleasure  to  hang 
the  piece  in  his  hall,  for  many  is  the  deer  and  the  bird  that  ho 
has  seen  it  destroy.  No,  no,  the  gun  must  be  sent  to  him  whose 
name  is  graven  on  the  stock  !"' 

5.  "  But  there  is  one  who  would  gladly  prove  his  affection  in 
the  way  you  wish  ;  he  who  owes  you  not  only  his  own  deliver- 
ance from  so  many  dangers,  but  who  inherits  a  heavy  debt  of 
gratitude  from  his  ancestors.  The  stone  shall  be  put  at  the  head 
of  your  grave."  The  old  man  extended  his  emaciated  hand,  and 
gave  the  other  a  squeeze  of  thanks.  "  I  thought  you  might  be 
willing  to  do  it,  but  I  was  backward  in  asking  the  favor,"  he 
said,  "seeing  that  you  are  not  of  my  kin.  Put  no  boastful 
words  on  the  same,  but  just  the  name,  the  age,  and  the  time  of 
the  death,  with  something  from  the  holy  book  ;  no  more,  no 
more.  My  name  will  then  not  be  altogether  lost  on  'arth  ;  I 
need  no  more." 

6.  Middleton  intimated  his  assent,  and  then  followed  a  pause 
that  was  onlv  interrupted  bv  distant  and  broken  sentences  from 
the  dying  man.  He  appeared  now  to  have  closed  his  accounts 
with  the  world,  and  to  await  merely  for  the  final  summons  to 
quit  it.  Middleton  and  Hard-Heart  placed  themselves  on  the 
opposite  sides  of  his  seat,  and  watched  with  melancholy  solici- 
tude the  variations  of  his  countenance. 

7.  For  two  hours  there  was  no  verv  sensible  alteration.    The 


412  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

expression  of  his  faded  and  time-worn  features  was  that  of  a 
calm  and  dignified  repose.  From  time  to  time  he  spoke,  utter- 
ing some  brief  sentence  in  the  way  of  advice,  or  asking  some 
simple  questions  concerning  those  in  whose  fortunes  he  still 
took  a  friendly  interest.  During  the  whole  of  that  solemn  and 
anxious  period,  each  individual  of  the  tribe  kept  his  place,  in 
the  most  self-restrained  patience.  When  the  old  man  spoke, 
all  bent  their  heads  to  listen  ;  and  when  his  words  were  uttered, 
they  seemed  to  ponder  on  their  wisdom  and  usefulness. 

8.  As  the  flame  drew  nigher  to  the  socket,  his  voice  was 
hushed  ;  and  there  were  moments  when  his  attendants  doubted 
whether  he  still  belonged  to  the  living.  Middleton,  who  watched 
each  wavering  expression  of  his  weather-beaten  visage  with  the 
interest  of  a  keen  observer  of  human  nature,  softened  by  the 
tenderness  of  personal  regard,  fancied  he  could  read  the  work- 
ings of  the  old  man's  soul  in  the  strong  lineaments  of  his  coun- 
tenance. Perhaps  what  the  enlightened  soldier  took  for  the 
delusion  of  mistaken  opinion  did  actually  occur — for  who  has 
returned  from  that  unknown  world  to  explain  by  what  forms, 
and  in  what  manner,  he  was  introduced  into  its  awful  precincts  ? 
Without  pretending  to  explain  what  must  ever  be  a  mystery  to 
the  quick,  we  shall  simply  relate  facts  as  they  occurred. 

9.  The  trapper  had  remained  nearly  motionless  for  an  hour. 
His  eyes  alone  had  occasionally  opened  and  shut.  WTaen  opened, 
his  gaze  seemed  fastened  on  the  clouds  which  hung  around  the 
western  horl'zon,  reflecting  the  bright  colors,  and  giving  form 
and  loveliness  to  the  glorious  tints  of  an  American  sunset.  The 
hour — the  calm  beauty  of  the  season — the  occasion — all  con- 
spired to  fill  the  spectators  with  solemn  awe.  Suddenly,  while 
musing  on  the  remarkable  position  in  which  he  was  placed, 
Middleton  felt  the  hand,  which  he  held,  grasp  his  own  with  in- 
credible power,  and  the  old  man,  supported  on  either  side  by 
his  friends,  rose  upright  to  his  feet.  For  a  moment  he  looked 
about  him,  as  if  to  invite  all  in  his  presence  to  listen  (the  lingering 
remnant  of  human  frailty),  and  then,  with  a  fine  military  elevation 
of  the  head,  and  with  a  voice  that  might  be  heard  in  every  part 
of  that  numerous  assembly,  he  pronounced  the  word — "  Here!" 

10.  A  movement  so  entirely  unexpected,  and  the  air  of  grand- 
eur and  humility  which  were  so  remarkably  united  in  the  mien 
of  the  trapper,  together  with  the  clear  and  uncommon  force  of 


DEATH  OF  THE  OLD  TRAPPER.         413 

his  utterance,  produced  a  short  period  of  confusion  in  the  facul- 
ties of  all  present.  Yvlien  Middleton  and  Hard-Heart,  each  of 
whom  had  involuntarily  extended  a  hand  to  support  the  form  of 
the  old  man,  turned  to  him  again,  they  found  that  the  subject  of 
their  interest  was  removed  forever  beyond  the  necessity  of  their 
care.  They  mournfully  placed  the  body  in  its  seat,  and  the 
voice  of  the  old  Indian,  who  arose  to  announce  the  termination 
of  the  scene  to  the  tribe,  seemed  a  sort  of  echo  from  that  invisi- 
ble world  to  which  the  meek  spirit  of  the  trapper  had  just  de- 
parted. "  A  valiant,  a  just,  and  a  wise  warrior  has  gone  on  the 
path  which  will  lead  him  to  the  blessed  grounds  of  his  people  !" 
he  said.  "  When  the  voice  of  the  "Wahcondah  called  him,  he 
was  ready  to  answer.  Go,  my  children  ;  remember  the  just 
chief  of  the  pale-faces,  and  clear  your  own  tracks  from  briers !" 
11.  The  grave  was  made  beneath  the  shade  of  some  noble 
oaks.  It  has  been  carefully  watched  to  the  present  hour  by  the 
Pawnees  of  the  Loup,  and  is  6f/m  shown  to  the  traveler  and 
the  trader  as  a  spot  where  a  just  white  man  sleeps.  In  due  time 
the  stone  was  placed  at  its  head,  with  the  simple  inscription 
which  the  trapper  had  himself  requested.  The  only  liberty 
taken  by  Middleton  was  to  add — "May  no  wanton  hand  ever 

DISTURB    HIS    REMAINS."  JAMES  FENNIMORE   COOPER. 

James  Fennimoke  Coopek,  the  celebrated  American  novelist,  was  born  at 
Burlington,  New  Jersey,  in  1789.  His  father,  Judge  William  Cooper,  born  in 
Pennsylvania,  became  possessed,  in  1785,  of  a  large  tract  of  land  near  Otsego 
Lake,  in  the  State  of  New  York,  where,  in  the  spring  of  1786,  he  erected  the 
first  house  in  Cooperstown.  In  1 70.">  and  K'.t'.i  he  was  elected  to  represent  that 
district  in  Congress.  Here  the  novelist  chiefly  passed  his  boyhood  to  his  thir- 
teenth year,  and  became  perfectly  conversant  with  frontier  life.  At  that  early 
age  he  entered  Yale  College,  where  he  remained  three  years,  when  he  obtained 
a  midshipman's  commission  and  entered  the  navy  lie  passed  the  six  following 
years  in  that  service,  and  thus  became  master  of  the  second  great  field  of  his 
future  literary  career.  In  1811  he  resigned  his  commission,  married  Miss  De- 
lancey,  a  descendant  of  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  influential  families  in  Amer- 
ica, and  settled  down  to  a  home  life  in  "Westchester,  near  New  York,  where  he 
resided  for  a  short  time  before  removing  to  Cooperstown.  Here  he  wrote  bis 
first  book,  "  Precaution."  This  was  followed,  in  1821,  by  "The  Spy,"  one  of  the 
best  of  all  historical  romances.  It  was  almost  immediately  republished  in  all 
parts  of  Europe.  It  was  followed,  two  years  later,  by  "The  Pioneers."  "The 
Pilot,"  the  first  of  his  sea  novels,  next  appeared.  It  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able novels  of  the  time,  and  everywhere  obtained  instant  and  high  applause. 
In  1S2G  he  visited  Europe,  where  his  reputation  was  already  well  established  a* 
one  of  the  greatest  writers  of  romantic  fiction  which  our  age  has  produced.  He 
passed  several  years  abroad,  and  was  warmly  welcomed  in  every  country  he 
visited.    His  literary  activity  was  not  impaired  by  his  change  of  scene,  as  sev- 


^14  NATIONAL  FIFTH  READER. 

eral  of  his  best  works  were  written  while  traveling.  He  returned  home  in  1833. 
"  The  Prairie,"  from  which  the  above  touching  and  effective  scene  was  taken, 
the  first  of  his  works  written  in  Europe,  published  in  1827,  was  one  of  the  most 
successful  of  the  novelist's  productions.  His  writings  throughout  are  distin- 
guished by  purity  and  brilliancy  of  no  common  merit.  He  was  alike  remarkable 
for  his  fine  commanding  person,  his  manly,  resolute,  independent  nature,  and 
his  noble,  generous  heart.    He  died  at  Cooperstown,  September  14, 1851. 

VI. 

134.     ELEGY    IN    A    COUNTRY    CHURCH- YARD. 

rTIHE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
JL    The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  plowman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

2.  Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  ; 

3.  Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

4.  Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  moldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

5.  The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

6.  For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

7.  Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  6ft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  : 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke 


ELEGY  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCH-YARD.       415 

8.  Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

9.  The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth,  e'er  gave, 
Await  alike  th*  inevitable  hour  : 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

10.  Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault, 

If  Memory  6'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
"Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

11.  Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust, 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Honor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull,  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

12.  Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre  : 

13.  But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page, 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll  ; 
Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

14.  Full  many  a  gem,  of  purest  ray  serene, 

The  dark,  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear  ; 
Full  many  a  flower  is  bom  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

15.  Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, — 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton, — here  may  rest  ; 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

16.  Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

17.  Their  lot  forbade  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 


416  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 

18.  The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

19.  Far  from  the  maddening  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 

Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray  ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

20.  Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 
Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

21.  Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply  ; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews,    . 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

22.  For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

23.  On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  (wunt'ed)  fires. 

24.  For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonored  dead, 

Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 
If  'chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate, — 

25.  Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

26.  "  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 

That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


THE    PHANTOM    SHIP.  417 

27.  "  Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 

Muttering  bis  wayward  fancies,  would  he  rove, 
Now  drooping,  woful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

28.  "  One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 

Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree  : 
Another  came, — nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he  : 

29.  "  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  churchway  path  we  saw  him  borne  ; 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

THE    EPITAPH. 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
a  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  i 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  birth, 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere, 
Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 

He  gave  to  misery — all  he  had — a  tear, 

He  galned  from  heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

no  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  FRAILTIES  from  THEIR  dread  ABODE, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 

The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  ms  God.  Gray. 


SECTIOX    XXY. 
I. 

135.  THE    PHANTOM    SHIP. 

1. 

a^HE  breeze  had  sunk  to  rest,  the  noonday  sun  was  high, 
.   And  ocean's  breast  lay  motionless  beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
There  was  silence  in  the  air,  there  was  silence  in  the  deep  ; 
And  it  seemed  as  though  that  burning  calm  were  nature's  final 
sleep. 


418  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

2. 

The  mid-day  watch  was  set,  beneath  the  blaze  of  light, 
When  there  came  a  cry  from  the  tall  mast-head,  "  A  sail!  a  sail, 
in  sight /" 

And  o'er  the  far  horl'zon  a  snowy  speck  appeared, 

And  every  eye  was  strained  to  watch  the  vessel  as  she  neared. 

3. 

There  was  no  breath  of  air,  yet  she  bounded  on  her  way, 
And  the  dancing  waves  around  her  prow  were  flashing  into  spray. 
She  answered  not  their  hail,  alongside  as  she  passed  : 
There  were  none  who  trod  her  spacious  deck  ;  not  a  seaman  on 
the  mast ; 

4 

No  hand  to  guide  her  helm  :  yet  on  she  held  her  course  ; 
She  swept  along  that  waveless  sea,  as  with  a  tempest's  force  : 
A  silence,  as  of  death,  was  o'er  that  vessel  spread 
She  seemed  a  thing  of  another  world,  the  world  where  dwell  the 
dead. 

5. 

She  passed  away  from  sight,  the  deadly  calm  was  o'er, 

And  the  spell-bound  ship  pursued  her  course  before  the  breeze 

once  more  ; 
And  clouds  across  the  sky  obscured  the  noonday  sun, 
And  the  winds  arose  at  the  tempest's  call,  before  the  day  was  done. 

6. 

Midnight — and  still  the  storm  raged  wrathfully  and  loud, 
And  deep  in  the  trough  of  the  heaving  sea  labored  that  vessel 

proud  : 
There  was  darkness  all  around,  save  where  lightning  flashes  keen 
Played  on  the  crest3  of  the  broken  waves,  and  lit  the  depths 

between. 

7. 

Around  her  and  below,  the  waste  of  waters  roared, 

And  answered  the  crash  of  the  falling  masts  as  they  cast  them 

overboard. 
At  every  billow's  shock  her  quivering  timbers  strain  ; 
And  as  she  rose  on  a  crested  wave,  that  strange  ship  passed  again. 


THE    DROWNED    MARINER  419 

8. 
And  o'er  that  stormy  sea  she  flew  before  the  gale, 
Yet  she  had  not  struck  her  lightest  spar,  nor  furled  her  loftiest  sail. 
Another  blinding  flash,  and  nearer  yet  she  seemed, 
And  a  pale  blue  light  along  her  sails  and  o'er  her  rigging  gleamed. 

9. 
But  it  showed  no  seaman's  form,  no  hand  her  course  to  guide; 
And  to  their  signals  of  distress  the  winds  alone  replied. 
The  Phantom  Ship  passed  on,  driven  o'er  her  pathless  way, 
But  helplessly  the  sinking  wreck  amid  the  breakers  lay. 

10. 

The  angry  tempest  ceased,  the  winds  were  hushed  to  sleep, 
And  calm  and  bright  the  sun  again  shone  out  upon  the  deep. 
But  that  gallant  ship  no  more  shall  roam  the  ocean  free  ; 
She  has  reached  her  final  haven,  beneath  the  dark  blue  sea. 

11. 
And  many  a  hardy  seaman,  who  fears  nor  storm  nor  fight, 
Yet  trembles  when  the  Phantom  Ship  drives  past  his  watch  at 

night; 
For  it  augurs  death  and  danger  :  it  bodes  a  watery  grave, 
With  sea-weeds  for  his  pillow — for  his  shroud,the  wandering  wave. 

n. 

136.     THE    DROWNED    MARINER. 

A  MARINER  sat  in  the  shrouds  one  night, 
The  wind  was  piping  free  ; 
Now  bright,  now  dimmed  was  the  moonlight  pale, 
And  the  phosphor  gleamed  in  the  wake  of  the  whale, 

As  it  floundered  in  the  sea  ; 
The  scud  was  flying  athwart  the  sky, 
The  gathering  winds  went  whistling  by, 
And  the  wave,  as  it  towered  then  fell  in  spray, 
Looked  an  emerald  wall  in  the  moonlight  ray. 

2.  The  mariner  swayed  and  rocked  on  the  mast, 

But  the  tumult  pleased  him  well  : 
Down  the  yawning  wave  his  eye  he  cast, 
And  the  monsters  watched,  as  they  hurried  past, 

Or  lightly  rose  and  fell. — 


420  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

For  their  broad,  damp  fins  were  under  the  tide, 
And  they  lashed,  as  they  passed,  the  vessel's  side, 
And  their  filmy  eyes,  all  huge  and  grim, 
Glared  fiercely  up,  and  they  glared  at  him. 

3.  Now  freshens  the  gale,  and  the  brave  ship  goes 

Like  an  uncurbed  steed  along ; 
A  sheet  of  flame  is  the  spray  she  throws, 
As  her  gallant  prow  the  water  plows  ; 

But  the  ship  is  fleet  and  strong  ; 
The  topsails  are  reefed,  and  the  sails  are  furled, 
And  onward  she  sweeps  o'er  the  watery  world, 
And  dippeth  her  spars  in  the  surging  flood  ; 
But  there  cometh  no  chill  to  the  mariner's  blood. 

4.  "Wildly  she  rocks,  but  he  swingeth  at  ease, 

And  holds  him  by  the  shroud  ; 
And,  as  she  careens  to  the  crowding  breeze, 
The  gaping  deep  the  mariner  sees, 

And  the  surging  heareth  loud. 
Was  that  a  face,  looking  up  at  him 
With  its  pallid  cheek,  and  its  cold  eyes  dim  ? 
Did  it  beckon  him  down  ?    Did  it  call  his  name  ? 
Now  rolleth  the  ship  the  way  whence  it  came. 

5.  The  mariner  looked,  and  he  saw,  with  dread, 

A  face  he  knew  too  well ; 
And  the  cold  eyes  glared,  the  eyes  of  the  dead, 
And  its  long  hair  out  on  the  waves  was  spread— - 

Was  there  a  tale  to  tell  ? 
The  stout  ship  rocked  with  a  reeling  speed — 
And  the  mariner  groaned,  as  well  he  need — 
For  ever  down,  as  she  plunged  on  her  side, 
The  dead  face  gleamed  from  the  briny  tide. 

6.  Bethink  thee,  mariner,  well  of  the  past : 

A  voice  calls  loud  for  thee  ; 
There's  a  stifled  prayer,  the  first,  the  last ; 
The  plunging  ship  on  her  beam  is  cast — 

Oh,  where  shall  thy  burial  be  ? 
Bethink  thee  of  oaths,  that  were  lightly  spoken ; 
Bethink  thee  of  vows,  that  were  lightly  broken  ; 


THE    DROWNED    MARINER.  421 

Bethink  thee  of  all  that  is  dear  to  thee, 
For  thou  art  alone  on  the  raging  sea. 

7.  Alone  in  the  dark,  alone  on  the  wavo 

To  buffet  the  storm  alone  ; 
To  struggle  aghast  at  thy  watery  grave, 
To  struggle  and  feel  there  is  none  to  save  I 

God  shield  thee,  helpless  one ! 
The  stout  limb3  yield,  for  their  strength  is  past ; 
The  trembling  hands  on  the  deep  are  cast ; 
The  white  brow  gleams  a  moment  more, 
Then  slowly  sinks — the  struggle  is  o'er. 

8.  Down,  down,  where  the  storm  is  hushed  to  sleep, 

"Where  the  sea  its  dirge  shall  swell ; 
"Where  the  amber-drops  for  thee  shall  weep, 
And  the  rose-lipped  shell  its  music  keep  ; 

There  thou  shalt  slumber  well. 
The  gem  and  the  pearl  lie  heaped  at  thy  side  ; 
They  fell  from  the  neck  of  the  beautiful  bride, 
From  the  strong  man's  hand,  from  the  maiden's  brow, 
As  they  slowly  sunk  to  the  wave  below. 

9.  A  peopled  home  is  the  ocean-bed  ; 

The  mother  and  child  are  there  : 
The  fervent  youth  and  the  hoary  head, 
The  maid  with  her  floating  locks  outspread, 

The  babe  with  its  silken  hair  : 

As  the  water  moveth  they  slightly  sway, 

And  the  tranquil  light  on  their  features  play  : 

And  there  is  each  cherished  and  beautiful  form, 

Away  from  decay,  and  away  from  the  storm. 

Mrs.  Smith. 

Elizabeth  Oakes  Smith,  the  accomplished  writer,  whose  maiden  name  was 
Prince,  was  born  near  Portland,  Maine.  She  early  showed  remarkable  skill  in 
composition.  When  sixteen  years  of  a<rc  she  was  married  to  Mr.  Seba  Smith, 
author,  who  in  1S39  removed  to  New  York,  where  they  still  reside.  Her  first 
published  book  was  entitled  "  Riches  without  "Wings."  In  1S44  appeared  "  The 
Sinless  Child,  and  other  Poems,"  and  since,  a  number  of  other  works,  some  of 
which  have  passed  through  many  editions. 


422  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

m. 

137.     THE    DIVER. 

"/~\H,  where  is  the  knight  or  the  squire  so  bold, 

V-/  As  to  dive  to  the  howling  charybdis '  below  ? — 
I  cast  into  the  whirlpool  a  goblet  of  gold, 

And  o'er  it  already  the  dark  waters  flow  : 
"Whoever  to  me  may  the  goblet  bring, 
Shall  have  for  his  guerdon 3  that  gift  of  his  king." 

2.  He  spoke,  and  the  cup  from  the  terrible  steep, 

That  rugged  and  hoary,  hung  over  the  verge 
Of  the  endless  and  measureless  world  of  the  deep, 

Swirled  into  the  maelstrom  that  maddened  the  surge. 
"  And  where  is  the  diver  so  stout  to  go — 
I  ask  ye  again— to  the  deep  below?" 

3.  And  the  knights  and  the  squires  that  gathered  around, 

Stood  silent — and  fixed  on  the  ocean  their  eyes  ; 
They  looked  on  the  dismal  and  savage  profound, 

And  the  peril  chilled  back  every  thought  of  the  prize. 
And  thrice  spoke  the  monarch — "  The  cup  to  win, 
Is  there  never  a  wight  who  will  venture  in  ?" 

4.  And  all  as  before  heard  in  silence  the  king — 

Till  a  youth,  with  an  aspect  unfearing  but  gentle, 
'Mid  the  tremulous  squires,  stept  out  from  the  ring, 

Unbuckling  his  girdle,  and  doffing  his  mantle  ; 
And  the  murmuring  crowd,  as  they  parted  asunder, 
On  the  stately  boy  cast  their  looks  of  wonder. 

5.  As  he  strode  to  the  marge  of  the  summit,  and  gave 

One  glance  on  the  gulf  of  that  merciless  main  ; 
Lo !  the  wave  that  for  ever  devours  the  wave, 

Casts  roaringly  up  the  charybdis  again  ; 
And,  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 
Rushes  foamingly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

^ —  .... 

1  Cha  ryb'  dis,   one  of   the   two  immense  fig-tree,  under  which  dwelt 

rocks,  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  describ-  Charybdis,  who    thrice    every   day 

ed  by  Homer  as  lying  near  together,  swallowed  down  the  waters  of  the 

between  Italy  and  Sicily  ;  both  for-  sea,  and  thrice  threw  them  up  again, 

midable  to  ships  which  had  to  pass  3  Guerdon,  (gcVdon),  recompense ; 

between  them.    One  contained  an  reward. 


THE    DIVER.  423 

6.  And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 

As  when  fire  is  with  water  commixed  and  contending  ; 
And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 

And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending. 
And  it  never  will  rest,  nor  from  travail  be  free, 
Like  a  sea  that  is  laboring  the  birth  of  a  sea. 

7.  And  at  last  there  lay  open  the  desolate  realm  I 

Through  the  breakers  that  whitened  the  waste  of  the  swell, 
Dark — dark  yawned  a  cleft  in  the  midst  of  the  whelm, 

The  path  to  the  heart  of  that  fathomless  hell. 
Round  and  round  whirled  the  waves — deep  and  deeper  still 

driven, 
Like  a  gorge  thro'  the  mountainous  main  thunder-riven. 

8.  The  youth  gave  his  trust  to  his  Maker !     Before 

That  path  through  the  riven  abyss  closed  again — 
Hark !  a  shriek  from  the  crowd  rang  aloft  from  the  shore, 

And,  behold !  he  is  whirled  in  the  grasp  of  the  main ! 
And  o'er  him  the  breakers  mysteriously  rolled, 
And  the  giant-mouth  closed  on  the  swimmer  so  bold. 

9.  O'er  the  surface  grim  silence  lay  dark  and  profound, 

But  the  deep  from  below  murmured  hollow  and  fell  ; 
And  the  crowd,  as  it  shuddered,  lamented  aloud — 

"Gallant  youth — noble  heart — fare-thee-well,  fare-thee- 
well !" 
And  still  ever  deepening  that  wail  as  of  woe, 
More  hollow  the  gulf  sent  its  howl  from  below. 

10.  If  thou  should'st  in  those  waters  thy  diadem  fling, 

And  cry,  "  "Who  may  find  it  shall  win  it,  and  wear  ;" 
God's  wot,  though  the  prize  were  the  crown  of  a  king — 

A  crown  at  such  hazard  were  valued  too  dear. 
For  never  did  lips  of  the  living  reveal, 
What  the  deeps  that  howl  yonder  in  terror  conceal. 

11.  Oh  many  a  ship,  to  that  breast  grappled  fast, 

Has  gone  down  to  the  fearful  and  fathomless  grave  ; 
Again,  crashed  together,  the  keel  and  the  mast, 

To  be  seen,  tossed  aloft  in  the  glee  of  the  wave. — 
Like  the  growth  of  a  storm  ever  louder  and  clearer, 
Grows  the  roar  of  the  gulf  rising  nearer  and  nearer. 


424  NATIONAL   FIFTH    READER. 

12.  And  it  bubbles  and  seethes,  and  it  hisses  and  roars, 

As  when  fire  is  with  water  commixed  and  contending ; 
And  the  spray  of  its  wrath  to  the  welkin  up-soars, 

And  flood  upon  flood  hurries  on,  never  ending. 
And,  as  with  the  swell  of  the  far  thunder-boom, 
Rushes  roaringly  forth  from  the  heart  of  the  gloom. 

13.  And,  lo !  from  the  heart  of  that  far-floating  gloom, 

What  gleams  on  the  darkness  so  swanlike  and  white  ? 
Lo !  an  arm  and  a  neck,  glancing  up  from  the  tomb ! — 

They  battle — the  Man's  with  the  Element's  might. 
It  is  he — it  is  he  !--in  his  left  hand  behold, 
As  a  sign — as  a  joy! — shines  the  goblet  of  gold! 

14  And  he  breathed  deep,  and  he  breathed  long, 

And  he  greeted  the  heavenly  delight  of  the  day. 
They  gaze  on  each  other — they  shout  as  they  throng — 

"  He  lives — lo  the  ocean  has  rendered  its  prey ! 
And  out  of  the  grave  where  the  Hell  began, 
His  valor  has  rescued  the  living  man !" 

15.  And  he  comes  with  the  crowd  in  their  clamor  and  glee, 
And  the  goblet  his  daring  has  won  from  the  water, 
He  lifts  to  the  king  as  he  sinks  on  his  knee ; 

And  the  king  from  her  maidens  has  beckoned  his  daughter, 
And  he  bade  her  the  wine  to  his  cup-bearer  bring, 
And  thus  spake  the  Diver — "Long  life  to  the  king! 

1G.  "Happy  they  whom  the  rose-hues  of  daylight  rejoice, 
The  air  and  the  sky  that  to  mortals  are  given ! 
May  the  horror  below  never  more  find  a  voice — 

Nor  Man  stretch  too  far  the  wide  mercy  of  Heaven ! 
Never  more — never  more  may  he  lift  from  the  mirror, 
The  Veil  which  is  woven  with  Night  and  with  Tereok  I 

17.  "  Quick-brightening  like  lightning — it  tore  me  along, 

Down,  down,  till  the  gush  of  a  torrent  at  play, 
In  the  rocks  of  its  wilderness  caught  me — and  strong 

As  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  it  whirled  me  away. 
Vain,  vain  were  my  struggles — the  circle  had  won  me, 
Round  and  round  in  its  dance  the  wild  element  spun  me. 

18.  "  And  I  called  on  my  God,  and  my  God  heard  my  prayer. 
In  the  strength  of  my  need,  in  the  gasp  of  my  breath — • 


THE    DIVER.  426 

And  showed  me  a  crag  that  rose  up  from  the  lair, 

And  I  clung  to  it,  trembling — and  baffled  the  death ! 
And,  safe  in  the  perils  around  me,  behold 
On  the  spikes  of  the  coral  the  goblet  of  gold. 

19.  "  Below,  at  the  foot  of  that  precipice  drear, 

Spread  the  gloomy,  and  purple,  and  pathless  obscure ! 
A  Silence  of  Horror  that  slept  on  the  ear, 

That  the  eye  more  appalled  might  the  Horror  endure ! 
Salamander — snake — dragon — vast  reptiles  that  dwell 
In  the  deep — coiled  about  the  grim  jaws  of  their  hell. 

20.  "Dark-crawled — glided  dark  the  unspeakable  swarms, 

Like  masses  unshapen,  made  life  hideously — 
Here  clung  and  here  bristled  the  fashionless  forms — 

Here  the  Hammer-fish  darkened  the  dark  of  the  sea — 
And  with  teeth  grinning  white,  and  a  menacing  motion, 
Went  the  terrible  Shark— the  Hyena  of  Ocean. 

21.  "  There  I  hung,  and  the  awe  gathered  icily  o'er  me, 

So  far  from  the  earth  where  man's  help  there  was  none ! 
The  One  Human  Thing,  with  the  Goblins  before  me — 

Alone — in  a  loneness  so  ghastly — Alone  ! 
Fathom-deep  from  man's  eye  in  the  speechless  profound, 
With  the  death  of  the  Main  and  the  Monsters  around. 

22.  "  Methought,  as  I  gazed  through  the  darkness,  that  now 

A  hundred-limbed  creature  caught  sight  of  its  prey, 
And  darted — O  God !  from  the  far-flaming  bough 

Of  the  coral,  I  swept  on  the  horrible  way  ; 
And  it  seized  me,  the  wave  with  its  wrath  and  its  roar, 
It  seized  me  to  save — King,  the  danger  is  o'er!" 

23.  On  the  youth  gazed  the  monarch,  and  marveled — quoth  he, 

"Bold  Diver,  the  goblet  I  promised  is  thine, 
And  this  ring  will  I  give,  a  fresh  guerdon  to  thee, 

Never  jewels  more  precious  shone  up  from  the  mine  ; 
If  thou'lt  bring  me  fresh  tidings,  and  venture  again, 
To  say  what  lies  hid  in  the  innermost  main!" 

24.  Then  outspake  the  daughter  in  tender  emotion, 

"Ah!  father,  my  father,  what  more  can  there  rest? 
Enough  of  this  sport  with  the  pitiless  ocean — 

He  has  served  thee  as  none  would,  thyself  hast  confest 


426  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

If  nothing  can  slake  thy  -wild  thirst  of  desire, 

Be  your  knights  not,  at  least,  put  to  shame  by  the  squire  I* 

25.  The  king  seized  the  goblet — he  swung  it  on  high, 

And  whirling,  it  fell  in  the  roar  of  the  tide  ; 
"  But  bring  back  that  goblet  again  to  my  eye, 

And  I'll  hold  thee  the  dearest  that  rides  by  my  side, 
And  thine  arms  shall  embrace  as  thy  bride,  I  decree, 
The  maiden  whose  pity  now  pleadeth  for  thee.5' 

26.  In  his  heart,  as  he  listened,  there  leapt  the  wild  joy — 

And  the  hope  and  the  love  through  his  eyes  spoke  in  fire, 
On  that  bloom,  on  that  blush,  gazed,  delighted,  the  boy  ; 

The  maiden  she  faints  at  the  feet  of  her  sire ! 
Here  the  guerdon  divine,  there  the  danger  beneath  ; 
He  resolves ! — To  the  strife  with  the  life  and  the  death ! 

27.  They  hear  the  loud  surges  sweep  back  in  their  swell ; 

Their  coming  the  thunder-sound  heralds  along ! 
Fond  eyes  yet  are  tracking  the  spot  where  he  fell — 

They  come,  the  wild  waters,  in  tumult  and  throng, 

Rearing  up  to  the  cliff — roaring  back  as  before  ; 

But  no  wave  ever  brought  the  lost  youth  to  the  shore. 

Schiller. 

JohA'nn  Ciiristoph  Friedrich  von  Schiller,  a  German  poet,  dramatist, 
and  historian,  was  born  in  Marbach,  Wiirtemberg,  November  10th,  1759,  and 
died  in  Weimar,  May  9th,  1805.  His  best  prose  production,  "History  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War,"  published  in  1791,  is  probably  the  best  historical  perform- 
ance of  which  Germany  can  boast.  His  greatest  performance,  the  drama  of 
"  Wallenstein,"  appeared  in  1799.  "  William  Tell,"  his  most  popular  drama,  was 
published  in  1804    He  is  probably  best  known  by  his  ballads  and  lyric  poems. 

IV. 

138.     MORTE    D'ARTHUR. 

SO  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  rolled 
Among  the  mountains  by  the  winter  sea ; 
Until  King  Arthur's *  table,  man  by  man, 
Had  fallen  in  Lyonness  about  their  Lord, 

»■  —    ■  ■  ■  ■ 1 -■  -       ■ 

1  King  Arthur.    The  life  and  death  Ian,  in  Cornwall,  in  542.   Modred  was 

of  this  ancient  British  hero,  if  indeed  slain  and  Arthur  mortally  wounded, 

there  ever  was  such  a  person,  are  The  British  Celts  long  believed  that 

involved    in    fiction.      Modred,   his  he  would  some  day  come  back  and 

nephew,  revolted  from  him,  which  vindicate   for  them  the  undivided 

brought  on  the  fatal  battle  of  Com-  sovereignty  of  Britannia. 


MORTE    D'ARTIIUR.  427 

King  Arthur  :  then,  because  his  wound  was  deep, 
The  bold  Sir  Bedivere  uplifted  him, 
Sir  Bedivere,  the  last  of  all  his  knights, 
And  bore  him  to  a  chapel  nigh  the  field, 
A  broken  chancel  with  a  broken  cross, 
That  stood  on  a  dark  strait  of  barren  land. 
On  one  side  lay  the  Ocean,  and  on  one 
Lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full. 

2.  Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  The  sequel  of  to-day  unsolders  all 

The  goodliest  fellowship  of  famous  knights 
\Vhereof  this  world  holds  record.     Such  a  sleep 
They  sleep — the  men  I  loved.     I  think  that  wo 
Shall  never  more,  at  any  future  time, 
Delight  our  souls  with  talk  of  knightly  deeds, 
Walking  about  the  gardens  and  the  halls 
Of  Camelot,  as  in  the  days  that  were. 
I  perish  by  this  people  which  I  made, — 
Though  Merlin '  sware  that  I  should  come  again 
To  rule  once  more — but  let  what  will  be,  be, 
I  am  so  deeply  smitten  through  the  helm 
That  without  help  I  can  not  last  till  morn. 

3.  Thou,  therefore,  take  my  brand  Excalibur, 
Which  was  my  pride  ;  for  thou  rememberest  how 
In  those  old  days,  one  summer  noon,  an  arm 
Rose  up  from  out  the  bosom  of  the  lake, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,3  mystic,  wonderful, 
Holding  the  sword — and  how  I  rowed  across 
And  took  it,  and  have  worn  it,  like  a  king  : 
And,  wheresoever  I  am  sung  or  told, 

In  aftertime,  this  also  shall  be  known  : 

But  now  delay  not :  take  Excalibur, 

And  fling  him  far  into  the  middle  meer  : 

"Watch  what  thou  seest,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 

4.  To  him  replied  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"It  is  not  meet,  Sir  King,  to  leave  thee  thus, 
Aidless,  alone,  and  smitten  through  the  helm. 


1  Merlin,  two  British  seers  and  sor-         2  Sa'  mite,  a  kind  of  silk  stuff,  or 
cerers,  of  tho  5th  and  6th  centuries,     taffeta,  often  adorned  with  geld. 


428  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

A  little  thing  may  harm  a  wounded  man. 

Yet  I  thy  hest  will  all  perform  at  full, 

Watch  what  I  see,  and  lightly  bring  thee  word." 

So  saying,  from  the  ruined,  shrine  he  stept, 

And  in  the  moon  athwart  the  place  of  tombs, 

"Where  lay  the  mighty  bones  of  ancient  men, 

Old  knights,  and  over  them  the  sea-wind  sang 

Shrill,  chill,  with  flakes  of  foam.     He,  stepping  down 

By  zigzag  paths,  and  juts  of  pointed  rock, 

Came  on  the  shining  levels  of  the  lake. 

5.  There  drew  he  forth  the  brand  Excalibur, 
And  o'er  him,  drawing  it,  the  winter  moon, 
Brightening  the  skirts  of  a  long  cloud,  ran  forth 
And  sparkled  keen  with  frost  against  the  hilt ; 
For  all  the  haft  twinkled  with  diamond  sparks, 
Myriads  of  topaz-lights,  and  jacinth-work 

Of  subtlest  jewelry.     He  gazed  so  long 
That  both  his  eyes  were  dazzled,  as  he  stood 
This  way  and  that  dividing  the  swift  mind, 
In  act  to  throw  ;  but  at  the  last  it  seemed 
Better  to  leave  Excalibur  concealed 
There  in  the  many-knotted  waterflags, 
That  whistled  stiff  and  dry  about  the  marge. 
So  strode  he  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

6.  Then  spake  King  Arthur  to  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"  Hast  thou  performed  my  mission  which  I  gave  ? 

What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard  ?" 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"  I  heard  the  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds, 

And  the  wild  water  lapping  on  the  crag." 

To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  faint  and  pale, 

"  Thou  hast  betrayed  thy  nature  and  thy  name, 

Not  rendering  true  answer,  as  beseemed 

Thy  fealty,  nor  like  a  noble  knight ; 

For  surer  sign  had  followed,  either  hand 

Or  voice,  or  else  a  motion  of  the  meer. 

This  is  a  shameful  thing  for  men  to  lie. 

Yet  now,  I  charge  thee,  quickly  go  again 

As  thou  art  lief  and  dear,  and  do  the  thing 

I  bade  thee,  watch,  and  lightly  bring  me  word." 


MORTE    D'ARTHUR.  4l29 

7.  Then  went  Sir  Bedivcrc  the  second  time 
Across  the  ridge,  and  paced  beside  the  meer, 
Counting  the  dewy  pebbles,  fixed  in  thought ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  wonder  of  the  hilt,         • 
How  curiously  and  strangely  chased,  he  smote 
His  palms  together,  and  he  cried  aloud  : 

"  And  if  indeed  I  cast  the  brand  away, 
Surely  a  precious  thing,  one  worthy  note, 
Should  thus  be  lost  forever  from  the  earth, 
Which  might  have  pleased  the  eyes  of  many  men. 
What  good  should  follow  this,  if  this  were  done  ? 
What  harm,  undone  ?  deep  harm  to  disobey, 
Seeing  obedience  is  the  bond  of  rule. 
Were  it  well  to  obey  then,  if  a  king  demand 
An  act  unprofitable,  against  himself '? 

8.  "  The  king  is  sick,  and  knows  not  what  he  does. 
What  record,  or  what  relic  of  my  lord 
Should  be  to  aftertime,  but  empty  breath 

And  rumors  of  a  doubt  ?  but  were  this  kept, 

Stored  in  some  treasure-house  of  mighty  kings, 

Some  one  might  show  it  at  a  joust  of  arms, 

Saying,  '  King  Arthur's  sword,  Excalibur, 

Wrought  by  the  lonely  maiden  of  the  Lake. 

Nine  years  she  wrought  it,  sitting  in  the  deeps 

Upon  the  hidden  bases  of  the  hills.' 

So  might  some  old  man  speak  in  the  aftertime 

To  all  the  people,  winning  reverence. 

But  now  much  honor  and  much  fame  were  lost." 

9.  So  spake  he,  clouded  with  his  own  conceit, 
And  hid  Excalibur  the  second  time, 

And  so  strode  back  slow  to  the  wounded  King. 

Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  breathing  heavily  : 

"  What  is  it  thou  hast  seen  ?  or  what  hast  heard? 

And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivcrc  : 

"  I  heard  the  water  hvpping  on  the  crag, 

And  the  long  ripple  washing  in  the  reeds." 

10.  To  whom  replied  King  Arthur,  much  in  wrath  ; 
"  Ah,  miserable  and  unkind,  untrue, 
Unknightly,  traitor-hearted !     Woe  is  me  ! 


430  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Authority  forgets  a  dying  king, 

Laid  widowed  of  the  power  in  his  eye 

That  bowed  the  will.     I  see  thee  what  thou  art ; 

For  thou,  the  latest  left  of  all  my  knights, 

In  whom  should  meet  the  offices  of  all, 

Thou  wouldst  betray  me  for  the  precious  hilt ; 

Either  from  lust  of  gold,  or  like  a  girl 

Valuing  the  giddy  pleasure  of  the  eyes. 

Yet,  for  a  man  may  fail  in  duty  twice, 

And  the  third  time  may  prosper,  get  thee  hence  ; 

But,  if  thou  spare  to  fling  Excalibur, 

I  will  arise  and  slay  thee  with  my  hands." 

11.  Then  quickly  rose  Sir  Bedivere,  and  ran, 

And,  leaping  down  the  ridges  lightly,  plunged 

Among  the  bulrush-beds,  and  clutched  the  stoord, 

And  strongly  wheeled  and  threw  it.     The  great  brand 

Made  lightnings  in  the  splendor  of  the  moon, 

And  flashing  round  and  round,  and  whirled  in  an  arch, 

Shot  like  a  streamer  of  the  northern  morn, 

Seen  where  the  moving  isles  of  winter  shock 

By  night,  with  noises  of  the  northern  sea. 

So  flashed  and  fell  the  brand  Excalibur  ; 

But  ere  he  dipt  the  surface,  rose  an  arm 

Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 

And  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 

Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  meer. 

And  lightly  went  the  other  to  the  King. 

3  2.  Then  spoke  King  Arthur,  drawing  thicker  breath, 
"  Now  see  I  by  thine  eyes  that  this  is  done. 
Speak  out  :  what  is  it  thou  hast  heard,  or  seen !" 
And  answer  made  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere  : 
"  Sir  King,  I  closed  mine  eyelids,  lest  the  gems 
Should  blind  my  purpose,  for  I  never  saw, 
Nor  shall  see,  here  or  elsewhere,  till  I  die, 
Not  though  I  live  three  lives  of  mortal  men, 
So  great  a  miracle  as  yonder  hilt. 
Then  with  both  hands  I  flung  him,  wheeling  him  ; 
But  when  I  looked  again,  behold  an  arm, 
Clothed  in  white  samite,  mystic,  wonderful, 


MORTE    D'ARTHUR.  431 

That  caught  him  by  the  hilt,  and  brandished  him 
Three  times,  and  drew  him  under  in  the  nicer." 

13.  And  answer  made  King  Arthur,  breathing  hard. 
"  My  end  draws  nigh  ;  'tis  time  that  I  were  gone. 
Make  broad  thy  shoulders  to  receive  my  weight, 
And  bear  me  to  the  margin  :  yet  I  fear 

My  wound  hath  taken  cold,  and  I  shall  die." 
So  saying,  from  the  pavement  he  half  rose, 
Slowly,  with  pain,  reclining  on  his  arm, 
And  looking  wistfully  with  wild  blue  eyes 
As  in  a  picture.     Him  Sir  Bedivere 
Remorsefully  regarded  through  his  tears, 
And  would  have  spoken,  but  he  found  not  words, 
Then  took  with  care,  and  kneeling  on  one  knee, 
O'er  buth  his  shoulders  drew  the  languid  hands, 
And  rising  bore  him  through  the  place  of  tombs. 

14.  But  as  he  walked,  King  Arthur  panted  hard 
Like  one  that  feels  a  nightmare  on  his  bed 
AVhen  all  the  house  is  mute.     So  sighed  the  King, 
Muttering  and  murmuring  at  his  ear,  "  Quick,  quick ! 
I  fear  it  is  too  late,  and  I  shall  die." 

But  the  other  swiftly  strode  from  ridge  to  ridge, 
Clothed  with  his  breath,  and  looking,  as  he  walked 
Larger  than  human  on  the  frozen  hills. 
He  heard  the  deep  behind  him,  and  a  cry 
Before.     His  own  thought  drove  him  like  a  goad. 
Dry  clashed  his  harness  in  the  icy  caves 
And  barren  chasms,  and  all  to  left  and  right 
The  bare  black  cliff  clanged  round  him,  as  he  based 
His  feet  on  juts  of  slippery  crag  that  rang 
Sharp-smitten  with  the  dint  of  armed  heels — 
And  on  a  sudden,  lo !  the  level  lake, 
And  the  long  glories  of  the  winter  moon. 

1 5.  Then  saw  they  how  there  hove  a  dusky  barge, 
Dark  as  a  funeral  scarf  from  stem  to  stem, 
Beneath  them  ;  and  descending  they  were  ware 
That  all  the  decks  were  dense  with  stately  forms 
Black-stoled,  black-hooded,  like  a  dream — by  these 
Three  Queens  with  crowns  of  gold — and  from  them  rose 


432  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

A  cry  that  shivered  to  the  tingling  stars, 

And,  as  it  were  one  voice,  an  agony 

Of  lamentation,  like  a  wind,  that  shrills 

All  night  in  a  waste  land,  where  no  one  comes, 

Or  hath  come,  since  the  making  of  the  world. 

Then  murmured  Arthur,  "  Place  me  in  the  barge," 

And  to  the  barge  they  came.     There  those  three  Queens 

Put  forth  their  hands,  and  took  the  King,  and  wept. 

16.  But  she  that  rose  the  tallest  of  them  all 
And  fairest,  laid  his  head  upon  her  lap, 

And  loosed  the  shattered  casque,  and  chafed  his  hands, 

And  called  him  by  his  name,  complaining  loud, 

And  dropping  bitter  tears  against  his  brow 

Striped  with  dark  blood  ;  for  all  his  face  was  white 

And  colorless,  and  like  the  withered  moon 

Smote  by  the  fresh  beam  of  the  springing  east ; 

And  all  his  greaves *  and  cuisses a  dashed  with  drops 

Of  onset ;  and  the  light  and  lustrous  curls — 

That  made  his  iovehead  like  a  rising  sun 

High  from  the  dais-throne — were  parched  with  dust ; 

Or,  clotted  into  points,  and  hanging  loose, 

Mixed  with  the  knightly  growth  that  fringed  his  lips. 

So  like  a  shattered  column  lay  the  King  ; 

Not  like  that  Arthur  who,  with  lance  in  rest, 

From  spur  to  plume  a  star  of  tournament, 

Shot  through  the  lists  at  Camelot,  and  charged 

Before  the  eyes  of  ladies  and  of  kings. 

17.  Then  lordly  cried  the  bold  Sir  Bedivere, — 
"  Ah  !  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  fore/iead  and  my  eyes? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead, 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  Elders  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 

But  now  the  whole  Round  Table  is  dissolved, 
Which  was  an  image  of  the  mighty  world  ; 


1  Greaves,  armor  for  the  legs;  a        2  Cuisse,  (lewis),  defensive  armor 
«ort  of  boots  for  the  thighs. 


MOETE    D'AKTIIL'tt.  4^3 

And  I,  tho  last,  go  forth  companionless, 

And  the  days  darken  round  me,  and  tho  years, 

Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds." 

18.  And  slowly  answered  Arthur  from  the  barge  : 
"The  old  order  change th,  yielding  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfills  himself  in  many  ways, 

Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 

Comfort  thyself  :  what  comfort  is  in  me? 

I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  havo  done 

May  Ho  within  himself  make  pure !  but  thou, 

If  thou  shouldst  never  sec  my  face  again, 

Pray  for  my  soul.     More  things  arc  wrought  by  prayer 

Than  this  world  dreams  of.     Wherefore,  let  thy  voice 

Rise  like  a  fountain  for  me  night  and  day. 

For  what  arc  men  better  than  sheep  or  goats 

That  nourish  a  blind  life  within  the  brain, 

If,  knowing  God,  they  lift  not  hands  of  prayer 

Both  for  themselves  and  those  who  call  them  friend? 

For  so  tho  whole  round  earth  is  every  way 

Bound  by  gold  chains  about  the  feet  of  God. 

19.  But  now  farewell.     I  am  going  a  long  way 
With  these  thou  seest — if  indeed  I  go 
(For  all  my  mind  is  clouded  with  a  doubt) 
To  the  island-valley  of  Avilion  ; 

Where  falls  not  hail,  or  rain,  or  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly  ;  but  it  lies 
Deep-mcadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard-lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  sea, 
Where  I  will  heal  me  of  my  grievous  wound." 

20.  So  said  he,  and  tho  barge  with  oar  and  sail 
Moved  from  the  brink,  like  some  full-breasted  swan, 
That,  iluting  a  wild  carol,  ere  her  death, 

Ruffles  her  pure  cold  plume,  and  takes  the  flood 
With  swarthy  webs.     Long  stood  Sir  Bedivere 
Revolving  many  memories,  till  the  hull 
Looked  one  black  dot  against  the  verge  of  dawn, 
And  on  the  mcer  the  wailing  died  awav. 

Alfhed  Te^tntson. 
19 


434 


NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 


V. 

139.     THE    SKELETON   IN   ARMOR.1 


1. 
"  O  PEAK !  speak  !   thou  fearful 

^         guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 
Comest  to  daunt  me ! 
"Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 
Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?" 

2. 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  wGe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

3. 

11 1  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald 2  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga 3  taught  thee ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 

1  The  author  says  :  M  The  follow- 
ing ballad  was  suggested  to  me 
while  riding  on  the  seashore  at 
Newport.  A  year  or  two  previous  a 
skeleton  had  been  dug  up  at  Fall 
River,  clad  in  broken  and  corroded 
armor  ;  and  the  idea  occurred  to  me 
of  connecting  it  with  the  Round 
Tower  at  Newport,  generally  known 
hitherto  as  the  Old  Wind  Mill, 
though  now  claimed  by  the  Danes 


"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  ger-falcon ;  * 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

5. 

"  Oft  to  his  frozen  lair 
Tracked  I  the  grisly  bear, 
While  from  my  path  the  hare 

Fled  like  a  shadow ; 
Oft  through  the  forest  dark 
Followed  the  were-wolf  s  bark, 
Until  the  soaring  lark 

Sang  from  the  meadow. 

6. 

"  But  when  I  older  grew, 
Joining  a  corsair's  crew, 
O'er  the  dark  sea  I  flew 

With  the  marauders. 
Wild  was  the  life  we  led ; 
Many  the  souls  that  sped, 
Many  the  hearts  that  bled, 

By  our  stern  orders. 


as  a  work  of  their  early  ancestors. 
This  is  an  admirable  exercise  in 
Monotone,  see  p.  G7. 

2  Skald,  an  ancient  Scandinavian 
bard  or  poet ;  a  reciter  and  singer  ot 
heroic  poems,  eulogies,  etc.,  among 
the  Norsemen. 

3  Sa'  ga,  a  Scandinavian  legend 
or  story  handed  down  among  tho 
Norsemen  and  kindred  people. 

4  Ger-falcon,  (j6V  fa  kn). 


TUE    SKELETON    LN    ARMOR. 


4;j5 


7. 
44  Many  a  wassail-bout ' 
Wore  the  long  Winter  out; 
Often  our  midnight  shout 

Set  the  cocks  crowing, 
As  we  the  Berserk's  tale 
Measured  in  cups  of  ale, 
Draining  the  oaken  pail, 

Filled  to  overflowing. 

8. 
"  Once  as  I  told  in  glee 
Tales  of  the  stormy  sea, 
Soft  eyes  did  gaze  on  me, 

Burning  yet  tender; 
And  as  the  white  stars  shine 
On  the  dark  Norway  pine, 
On  that  dark  heart  of  mine 

Fell  their  soft  splendor. 

9. 

"I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

10. 
"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chaunting  his  glory  ; 
"When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand. 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

11. 

i;  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed, 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 
The  sea-foam  bricrhtlv, 

o  v   7 


So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 
Blew  the  foam  lightly. 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  sheblushed  and  smiled 

I  was  discarded ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
"Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

13. 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me,— 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! — 
"When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
"Waving  his  armed  hand, 

O  7 

Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 
"With  twenty  horsemen. 

14. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  last, 

When  the  wind  failed  us ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

15. 

II  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Round  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  I 


1  Wassail-bout,  (w6s' sil-bout),  a  drinking-bout;  a  contest  or  set-to  at 
wassail,  a  kind  of  liquor  used  on  festive  occasions. 


436 


RATIONAL    FIFTH    READER, 


16. 
"  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  tierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

17. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
Cloud-like  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  sea-ward. 

18. 
11  There  lived  we  many  years : 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears; 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 
She  was  a  mother ; 


Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 
On  such  another ! 

19. 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sun-light  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

O,  death  was  grateful ! 

20. 
"  Thus,  seamed  with  meny  scars 
Bursting  these  prison  bars, 
Up  to  its  native  stars 

My  soul  ascended ! 
There  from  the  flowing  bowl 
Deep  drinks  the  warrior's  s6ul, 
Skoal!  to  the  Northland !  slcOalP^ 

— Thus  the  tale  ended. 

II.  W.  Longfellow. 


SECTION    XXYI. 

L 

140.     SCENES    FROM    PICKWICK. 

THE   DILEMMA. 

MR.  Pickwick's  apartments  in  Goswell  street,  although  on 
a  limited  scale,  were  not  only  of  a  very  neat  and  com- 
fortable description,  but  peculiarly  adapted  for  the  residence  of 
a  man  of  his  genius  and  observation.  His  sitting-room  was  the 
first  floor  front,  his  bed-room  wTas  the  second  floor  front ;  and 
thus,  whether  ho  was  sitting  at  his  desk  in  the  parlor,  or  stand- 
ing before  the  dressing-glass  in  his  dormitory-,  he  had  an  equal 

1  Skoal,  in  Scandanavia  this  is  the  the  word  is  slightly  changed,  in 
customary  salutation  when  drink-  order  to  preserve  the  correct  pro- 
liig  a  health.     The  orthography  of    nuneiation. 


SCENES    FliOAi    PICKWICK.  J^yj 

opportanity  of  contemplating  human  nature  in  all  the  numerous 
phases  it  exhibits,  in  that  not  more  populous  than  popular 
thoroughfare. 

2.  His  landlady,  Mrs.  Bardell — the  relict  and  sole  executrix 
of  a  deceased  custom-house  officer — was  a  comely  (kiim'ly) 
woman  of  bustling  manners  and  agreeable  appearance,  with  a 
natural  genius  for  cooking,  improved  by  study  and  long  prac- 
tice into  an  ex'quisite  talent.  There  were  no  children,  no  ser- 
vants, no  fowls.  The  only  other  inmates  of  the  house  were  a 
largo  man  and  a  small  boy  ;  the  first  a  lodger,  the  second  a 
production  of  Mrs.  Bardell's.  The  large  man  was  always  at 
home  precisely  at  ten  o'clock  at  night,  at  which  hour  he  regu- 
larly condensed  himself  into  the  limits  of  a  dwarfish  French 
bedstead  in  the  back  parlor  ;  and  the  infantine  sports  and  gym- 
nastic exercises  of  Master  Bardell  were  exclusively  confined  to 
the  neighboring  pavements  and  gutters.  Cleanliness  and  quiet 
reigned  throughout  tho  house  ;  and  in  it  Mr.  Pickwick's  will 
was  law. 

3.  To  any  one  acquainted  with  these  points  of  the  domestic 
economy  of  the  establishment,  and  conversant  with  the  admira- 
blc  regulation  of  Mr.  Pickwick's  mind,  his  appearance  and  be- 
havior, on  the  morning  previous  to  that  which  had  been  fixed 
upon  for  the  journey  to  Eatansvill,  would  have  been  most  mys- 
terious and  unaccountable.  He  paced  the  room  to  and  fro  with 
hurried  steps,  popped  his  head  out  of  the  window  at  intervals 
of  about  three  minutes  each,  constantly  referred  to  his  watch, 
and  exhibited  many  other  manifestations  of  impatience,  very 
unusual  with  him.  It  was  evident  that  something  of  great  im- 
portance was  in  contemplation  ;  but  what  that  something  was, 
not  even  Mrs.  Bardell  herself  had  been  enabled  to  discover. 

4.  "  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  last,  as  that  amiable 
female  approached  the  termination  of  a  prolonged  dusting  of 
the  apartment,  "Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell.  "Your  little  boy 
is  a  very  long  time  gone."  "  Why,  it's  a  good  long  way  to  tho 
Borough,  sir,"  remonstrated  Mrs.  Bardell.  "  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, "  very  true  ;  so  it  is."  Mr.  Pickwick  relapsed  into  silence, 
and  Mrs.  Bardell  resumed  her  dusting. 

5.  Mrs.  Bardell,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  at  the  expiration  of  a 
few  minutes.  "  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell  again.  "  Do  you  think 
it's  a  much  greater  expense  to  keep  two  people,  than  to  keep 


438  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

one  ?"  "  La,  Mr.  Pickwick/'  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  coloring  up  to 
the  very  border  of  her  cap,  as  she  fancied  she  observed  a  species 
of  matrimonial  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  her  lodger;  "La,  Mr. 
Pickwick,  what  a  question!"  "Well,  but  do  you?"  inquired 
Mr.  Pickwick.  "  That  depends,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  approaching 
the  duster  very  near  to  Mr.  Pickwick's  elbow,  which  was  planted 
on  the  table  ;  "  that  depends  a  good  deal  upon  the  person,  you 
Imow,  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  and  whether  it's  a  saving  and  careful  per- 
son, sir."  "  That's  very  true,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  "  but  the 
person  I  have  in  my  eye  (here  he  looked  very  hard  at  Mrs.  Bar- 
dell) I  think  possesses  these  qualities  ;  and  has,  moreover,  a 
considerable  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  a  great  deal  of  sharp- 
ness, Mrs.  Bardell ;   which  may  be  of  material  use  to  me." 

6.  "  La,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell ;  the  crimson  rising 
to  her  cap-border  again.  "  I  do,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  growing 
energetic,  as  was  his  wont  (wunt)  in  speaking  of  a  subject  which 
interested  him.  "  I  do,  indeed  ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs. 
Bardell,  I  have  made  up  my  mind."  "  Dear  me,  sir,"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Bardell.  "  You'll  think  it  not  very  strange  now,"  said  the 
amiable  Mr.  Pickwick,  with  a  good-humored  glance  at  his  com- 
panion, "  that  I  never  consulted  you  about  this  matter,  and  never 
mentioned  it,  till  I  sent  your  little  boy  out  this  morning — eh '?" 

7.  Mrs.  Bardell  could  only  reply  by  a  look.  She  had  long 
worshipped  Mr.  Pickwick  at  a  distance,  but  here  she  was,  all  at 
once,  raised  to  a  pinnacle  to  which  her  wildest  and  most  extrav- 
agant hopes  had  never  dared  to  aspire.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  going 
to  propose — a  deliberate  plan,  too — sent  her  little  boy  to  the 
Borough,  to  get  him  out  of  the  way — how  thoughtful — how  con- 
siderate !— "  Well,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  what  do  you  think  fM 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Pickwick,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  trembling  with  agita- 
tion, "  you're  very  kind,  sir."  "  It  will  save  you  a  great  deal  of 
trouble,  won't  it  ?"  said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Oh,  I  never  thought 
anything  of  the  trouble,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Bardell ;  "  and  of 
course,  I  should  take  more  trouble  to  please  you  then  than  ever  ; 
but  it  is  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Pickwick,  to  have  so  much  consid- 
eration for  my  loneliness." 

8.  "  Ah  to  be  sure,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick  ;  "  I  never  thought  of 
that.  When  I  am  in  town,  vou'll  alwavs  have  somebodv  to  sit 
with  you.  To  be  sure,  so  you  will."  "I'm  sure  I  ought  to  bo  a 
very  happy  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell.    "  And  your  little  boy — " 


SCENES    FROM    PICKWICK.  439 

said  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Bless  his  heart,"  interposed  Mrs.  Bardell, 
with  a  maternal  sob.  "  He,  too,  will  have  a  companion,"  re- 
sumed Mr.  Pickwick,  "a  lively  one,  who'll  teach  him,  I'll  bo 
bound,  more  tricks  in  a  week,  than  he  would  ever  learn  in  a 
year."     And  Mr.  Pickwick  smiled  placidly. 

9.  "  Oh  you  dear — "  said  Mrs.  Bardell.  Mr.  Pickwick  started. 
"  Oh  you  kind,  good,  playful  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell ;  and 
without  more  ado,  she  rose  from  her  chair,  and  flung  her  arms 
round  Mr.  Pickwick's  neck,  with  a  cataract  of  tears,  and  a 
chorus  of  sobs.  "Bless  my  soul,"  cried  tho  astonished  Mr. 
Pickwick  ; — "  Mrs.  Bardell,  my  good  woman — dear  me,  what  a 
situation — pray  consider.  Mrs.  Bardell,  don't — if  anybody 
should  come — "  "  Oh,  let  them  come,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell, 
frantically  ;  "I'll  never  leave  you — dear,  kind,  good,  soul ;"  and, 
with  theso  words,  Mrs.  Bardell  clung  the  tighter. 

]  0.  "  Mercy  upon  me,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  struggling  violently, 
"  I  hear  somebody  coming  up  the  stairs.  Don't,  don't,  there's 
a  good  creature,  don't."  But  entreaty  and  remonstrance  were 
alike  unavailing  :  for  Mrs.  Bardell  had  fainted  in  Mr.  Pickwick's 
arms  ;  and  before  he  could  gain  time  to  deposit  her  on  a  chair, 
Master  Bardell  entered  tho  room,  ushering  in  Mr.  Tupman, 
Mr.  Winkle,  and  Mr.  Snodgrass.  Mr.  Pickwick  was  struck 
motionless  and  speechless.  He  stood  with  his  lovely  burden 
in  his  arms,  gazing  vacantly  on  the  countenances  of  his  friends, 
without  the  slightest  attempt  at  recognition  or  explanation. 
They,  in  their  turn,  stared  at  him  ;  and  Master  Bardell,  in  his 
turn,  stared  at  evervbody. 

11.  The  astonishment  of  the  Pickwickians  was  so  absorbing, 
and  the  perplexity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  was  so  extreme,  that  they 
might  have  remained  in  exactly  the  same  relative  situation 
until  the  suspended  animation  of  tho  lady  was  restored,  had  it 
not  been  for  a  most  beautiful  and  touching  expression  of  filial 
affection  on  the  part  of  her  youthful  son.  Clad  in  a  tight  suit 
of  corduroy,  spangled  with  brass  buttons  of  a  very  considerable 
size,  he  at  first  stood  at  the  door  astounded  and  uncertain  ;  but 
by  degrees,  the  impression  that  his  mother  must  have  suffered 
some  personal  damage,  pervaded  his  partially  developed  mind, 
and  considering  Mr.  Pickwick  the  aggressor,  he  set  up  an  ap- 
palling and  semi-earthly  kind  of  howling,  and  butting  forward, 
with  his  head,  commenced  assailing  that  immortal  gentleman 


440  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

about  the  back  and  legs,  with  such  blows  and  pinches  as  the 
strength  of  his  arm,  and  the  violence  of  his  excitement  allowed. 

12.  Take  this  little  villain  away,"  said  the  agonized  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, "he's  mad."  "What  is  the  matter?"  said  the  three 
tongue-tied  Pickwickians.  "  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, pettishly.  "  Take  away  the  boy — (here  Mr.  Winkle  earned 
the  in'teresting  boy,  screaming  and  struggling,  to  the  farther 
end  of  the  apartment.)  Now  help  me  to  lead  this  woman  down 
stairs.*'  "  Oh,  I'm  better  now,"  said  Mrs.  Bardell,  faintly.  "Let 
me  lead  you  down  stairs,"  said  the  ever  gallant  Mr.  Tupman. 
"  Thank  you,  sir — thank  you  ;"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Bardell,  hys- 
terically. And  down  stairs  she  was  led  accordingly,  accompanied 
by  her  affectionate  son. 

13.  "  I  can  not  conceive" — said  Mr.  Pickwick,  when  his  friend 
returned — "  I  can  not  conceive  what  has  been  the  matter  with 
that  woman.  I  had  merely  announced  to  her  my  intention  of 
keeping  a  man-servant,  when  she  fell  into  the  extraordinary 
paroxysm  in  which  you  found  her.  Very  extraordinary  thing." 
"Very,"  said  his  three  friends.  "Placed  me  in  such  an  ex- 
tremely awkward  situation,"  continued  Mr.  Pickwick.  "  Very  ;** 
was  the  reply  of  his  followers,  as  they  coughed  slightly,  and 
looked  dubiously  at  each  other. 

4.  This  behavior  was  not  lost  upon  Mr.  Pickwick.  He  re- 
marked their  incredulity.  They  evidently  suspected  him. — 
"  There  is  a  man  in  the  passage,  now,"  said  Mr.  Tupman.  "  It's 
the  man  that  I  spoke  to  you  about,"  said  Mr.  Pickwick,  "  I  sent 
for  him  to  tho  Borough  this  morning.  Have  the  goodness  to 
call  him  up,  Snodgrass." 

n. 

141.     SCENES   FROM    PICKWICK. 

SPEECH    OF  SEXIGEINT   BUZFUZ. 

YOU  heard  from  ray  learned  friend,  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury, 
that  this  is  an  action  for  a  breach  of  promise  of  marriage, 
in  which  the  damages  are  laid  at  fifteen  hundred  pounds.  The 
plaintiff,  Gentlemen,  is  a  widow  ;  yes,  Gentlemen,  a  widow.  The 
late  Mr.  Bardell,  some  time  before  his  death,  became  the  father, 
Gentlemen,  of  a  little  boy.  With  this  little  boy,  the  only  pledge 
of  her  depai-ted  exciseman,  Mrs.  Bardell  shrunk  from  the  world 


tt 


SCENES    FROM    PICKWICK.  441 

and  courted  the  retirement  and  tranq uillity  of  Goswcll  street  : 
and  here  she  placed  in  her  front  parlor-window  a  written  pla- 
card', bearing  this  inscription, — "Apartments  fubnkhed  rcr.  \ 

SINGLE   GENTLEMAN.       InQUIIIE   WITHIN." 

2.  Mrs.  Bardell's  opinions  of  tho  opposite  sex,  Gentlemen, 
were  derived  from  a  long  contemplation  of  the  ines'thnablc  qual- 
ities of  her  lost  husband.    She  had  no  fear, — she  had  no  distrust, 

11  was  confidence  and  rel  Lance.  "  Mr.  Bardell,"  said  the  widow, 
was  a  man  of  honor, — Mr.  Bardell  was  a  man  of  his  word, — 
Mr.  Bardell  was  no  deceiver, — Mr.  Bardell  was  onco  a  single 
gentleman  himself  :  to  single  gentlemen  I  look  for  protection, 
for  assistance,  for  comfort,  and  consolation  ;  in  single  gentlemen 
I  shall  perpetually  see  something  to  remind  me  of  what  Mr. 
Bardell  was,  when  he  first  won  my  young  and  untried  aiiections  ; 
to  a  single  gentleman,  then,  shall  my  lodgings  be  let." 

3.  Actuated  by  this  beautiful  and  touching  impulse  (among 
the  best  impulses  of  our  imperfect  nature,  Gentlemen),  the  lonely 
and  desolate  widow  dried  her  tears,  furnished  her  first  floor, 
caught  her  innocent  boy  to  her  maternal  bosom,  and  put  the 
bill  up  in  her  parlor-window.  Did  it  remain  there  long?  No. 
The  serpent  was  on  the  watch,  the  train  was  laid,  the  mine  was 
preparing,  the  sapper  and  miner  was  at  work !  Before  the  bill 
had  been  in  the  parlor-window  three  days, — three  days,  Gentle- 
man,— a  being,  erect  upon  two  legs,  and  bearing  all  the  outward 
semblance  of  a  man,  and  not  of  a  monster,  knocked  at  the  door 
of  Mrs.  Bardell's  house !  He  inquired  within  ;  he  took  the 
lodgings  ;  and  on  the  very  next  day  he  entered  into  possession 
of  them.     This  man  was  Pickwick, — Pickwick,  the  defendant! 

•1.  Of  this  man  I  will  say  little.  The  subject  presents  but  few 
attractions  ;  and  I,  Gentlemen,  am  not  the  man,  nor  are  you, 
Gentlemen,  the  men,  to  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  revolt- 
ing heartlessness,  and  of  systematic  villainy.  I  say  systematic 
villainy,  Gentlemen  ;  and  when  I  say  systematic  villainy,  let  mo 
tell  the  defendant  Pickwick,  if  he  be  in  court,  as  I  am  info  lined 
he  is,  that  it  would  have  been  more  decent  in  him.  more  becom- 
ing,  if  he  had  stopped  away.  Let  me  tell  him,  further,  that  a 
counsel,  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty,  is  neither  to  be  intimida- 
ted, nor  bullied,  nor  put  down ;  and  that  any  attempt  to  do 
either  the  one  or  the  other  will  recoil  on  the  head  of  the 
at  tempter,  be   ho  plaintiff  or  be  he  defendant,  be  his  name 


442  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

Pickwick,   or  Xoakes,   cr   Stoakes,   or   Stiles,   or   Brown,   or 
Thompson. 

5.  I  shall  show  you,  Gentlemen,  that  for  two  years  Pickwick 
continued  to  reside  constantly,  and  without  interruption  or  in- 
termission, at  Mrs.  BardelTs  house.  I  shall  show  you  that  Mrs. 
Bardell,  during  the  whole  of  that  time,  waited  on  him,  attended 
to  his  comforts,  cooked  his  meals,  looked  out  his  linen  for  the 
washerwoman  when  it  went  abroad,  darned,  aired,  and  prepared 
it  for  wear  when  it  came  home,  and,  in  short,  enjoyed  his  fullest 
trust  and  confidence.  I  shall  show  you  that,  on  many  occasions, 
he  gave  half-pence,  and  on  some  occasions  even  sixpence,  to  her 
little  bey.  I  shall  prove  to  you,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  he 
returned  from  the  country,  he  distinctly  and  in  terms  offered  her 
marriage, — previously,  however,  taking  special  care  that  there 
should  be  no  witnesses  to  their  solemn  contract ;  and  I  am  in  a 
situation  to  prove  to  you,  on  the  testimony  of  three  of  his  own 
friends, — most  unwilling  witnesses,  Gentlemen — most  unwilling 
witnesses, — that  on  that  mominsf  he  was  discovered  bv  them 
holding  the  plaintiff  in  his  amis,  and  soothing  her  agitation  by 
his  caresses  and  endearments. 

6.  And  now,  Gentlemen,  but  one  word  more.  Two  letters 
have  passed  between  these  parties, — letters  that  must  be  viewed 
with  a  cautious  and  suspicious  eye, — letters  that  were  evidently 
intended,  at  the  time,  bv  Pickwick,  to  mislead  and  delude  any 
third  parties  into  whose  hands  they  might  fall.  Let  me  read 
the  first  : — "  Garraway's,  twelve  o'clock. — Dear  Mrs.  B. — Chops 
and  Tomato  sauce.  Yours,  Pickwick."  Gentleman,  what  does 
this  mean  ?  Chops  and  Tomato  sauce !  Yours,  Pickwick ! 
Chops !  Gracious  heavens !  And  Tomato  sauce !  Gentlemen, 
is  the  happiness  of  a  sensitive  and  confiding  female  to  be  trilled 
awav  bv  such  shallow  artifices  as  these  ? 

7.  The  next  has  no  date  whatever,  which  is  in  itself  suspi- 
cious : — "  Dear  Mrs.  B.,  I  shall  not  be  at  home  to  morrow.  Slow 
coach."  And  then  follows  this  very  remarkable  expression, — 
"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  the  warming-pan. "  The  warm- 
ing-pan !  Why,  Gentlemen,  who  does  trouble  himself  about  a 
warming-pan  ?  Why  is  Mrs.  Bardell  so  earnestly  entreated  not 
to  agitate  herself  about  this  warming-pan,  unless  (as  is  no  doubt 
the  case)  it  is  a  mere  cover  for  hidden  fire — a  mere  substitute 
for  sonic  endearing  word  or  promise,  agreeably  to  a  preconcerted 


SCENES    FROM    PICKWICK.  443 

system  of  correspondence,  artfully  contrived  by  Pickwick  with  a 
view  to  his  contemplated  desertion  ?  And  what  does  this  allu- 
sion to  the  slow  coach  mean  ?  For  aught  I  know,  it  may  be  a 
reference  to  Pickwick  himself,  who  has  most  unquestionably 
been  a  criminally  slow  coach  during  the  wholo  of  this  transac- 
tion, but  whose  speed  will  now  be  very  unexpectedly  accelerated, 
and  whose  wheels,  Gentlemen,  as  he  will  find  to  his  cost,  will 
very  soon  bo  greased  by  you ! 

8.  But  enough  of  this,  Gentlemen.  It  is  difficult  to  smile  with 
an  aching  heart.  My  client's  hopes  and  prospects  are  ruined, 
and  it  is  no  figure  of  speech  to  say  that  her  occupation  is  gone 
indeed.  The  bill  is  dowTn  ;  but  there  is  no  tenant !  Eligible 
single  gentlemen  pass  and  repass  ;  but  there  i3  no  invitation  for 
them  to  inquire  within,  or  without !  All  is  gloom  and  silence 
in  the  house  :  even  the  voice  of  the  child  is  hushed  ;  his  infant 
sports  are  disregarded,  when  his  mother  wrceps. 

9.  But  Pickwick,  Gentlemen,  Pickwick,  the  ruthless  destroyer 
of  this  domestic  6'asis  in  the  desert  of  Goswell  street, — Pickwick, 
who  has  choked  up  the  well,  and  thrown  ashes  on  the  sward, — 
Pickwick,  who  comes  before  you  to-day  with  his  heartless 
tomato-sauce  and  warming-pans, — Pickwick  still  rears  his  head 
with  unblushing  effrontery,  and  gazes  without  a  sigh  on  the  ruin 
he  has  made !  Damages,  Gentlemen,  heavy  damages,  is  the  only 
punishment  with  wrhich  you  can  visit  him, — the  only  recompense 
you  can  award  to  my  client !  And  for  those  damages  she  now 
appeals  to  an  enlightened,  a  high-minded,  a  right-feeling,  a  con- 
scientious, a  dispassionate,  a  sympathizing,  a  contemplative  Jury 
of  her  civilized  countrymen ! 

m. 

142.     SCENES    FROM    PICKnVICK. 

SAM    TYELLER    AS    WITNESS. 

"~TTT"HATS  your  name,  sir?"  inquired  the  judge.  "Sam 
V  V  Weller,  my  lord,"  replied  that  gentleman.  "  Do  you 
spell  it  with  a  '  V  or  a  '  W  ?'  "  inquired  the  judge.  "  That  de- 
pends upon  the  taste  and  fancy  of  the  speller,  my  lord,"  replied 
Sam  ;  "  I  never  had  occasion  to  spell  it  more  than  once  or  twice 
in  my  life,  but  I  spells  it  wTith  a  '  \7  "  Here  a  voice  in  the  gal- 
lery exclaimed  aloud, — "  Quite  right,  too,  Samivel  ;  quite  right. 


444  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Put  it  down  a  we,  my  lord,  put  it  down  a  we"     "  Who  is  that 
that  dares  to  address  the  court  ?"  said  the  little  judge  looking 

Up; "Usher!"     "Yes,  my  lord!"     "Bring  that  person  hero 

instantly."     "  Yes,  my  lord." 

2.  But,  as  the  usher  didn't  find  the  person,  he  didn't  bring 
him  ;  and,  after  a  great  commotion,  all  the  people  who  had  got 
up  to  look  for  the  culprit,  sat  down  again.  The  little  judge 
turned  to  the  witness  as  soon  as  his  indignation  would  allow 
him  to  speak,  and  said — "Do  you  know  who  that  was,  sir?" 
"I  rather  suspect  it  was  my  father,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam. 
"  Do  you  see  him  here  now ?"  said  the  judge.  "  No,  I  don't, 
my  lord,"  replied  Sam,  staring  right  up  into  the  lantern  in  the 
roof  of  the  court.  "If  you  could  have  pointed  him  out,  I 
would  have  committed  him  instantly,"  said  the  judge.  Sam 
bowed  his  acknowledgments,  and  turned  with  unimpaired  cheer- 
fulness of  countenance  toward  Sergeant '  Buzfuz. 

3.  "  Now,  Mr.  TVcller,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz.  "  Now,  sir," 
replied  Sam.  "  I  believe  you  are  in  the  service  of  Mr.  Pick- 
wick, the  defendant  in  this  case.  Speak  up,  if  you  please,  Mr. 
Weller."  "  I  mean  to  speak  up,  sir,"  replied  Sam.  "  I  am  in 
the  service  o'  that  'ere  genTman,  and  a  wery  good  service  it  is." 
"Little  to  do,  and  plenty  to  get,  I  suppose?"  said  Sergeant 
Buzfuz,  with  jocular'ity.  "  Oh,  quite  enough  to  get,  sir,  as  the 
soldier  said  ven  they  ordered  him  three  hundred  and  fifty 
lashes,"  replied  Sam.  "  You  must  not  tell  us  what  the  soldier 
or  any  other  man  said,  sir,"  interposed  the  judge  ;  "  it's  not  evi- 
bence."     M  Wery  good,  my  lord,"  replied  Sam. 

4.  "  Do  you  recollect  anything  particular  happening  on  the 
morning  when  you  were  first  engaged  by  the  defendant,  ch,  Mr. 
Weller?"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz.  "Yes  I  do,  sir,"  replied  Sam. 
"Have  the  goodness  to  tell  the  jury  what  it  was."  "I  had  a 
reg'lar  new  fit  out  o'  clothes  that  morn  in',  gen'l'men  of  the  jury," 
said  Sam,  "  and  that  was  a  wery  particler  and  uncommon  cir- 
cumstance vith  me  in  those  days." 

5.  Hereupon  there  was  a  general  laugh  ;  and  the  little  judge, 
looking  with  an  angry  countenance  over  his  desk,  said, — "  You 
had  better  be  careful,  sir."  "  So  Mr.  Pickwick  said  at  the  time, 
my  lord,"  replied  Sam,  "  and  I  was  wcry  careful  o'  that  'ere  suit 
o'  clothes  ;  wery  careful,  indeed,  my  lord."     The  judge  looked 

1  Sergeant,  (tar'jent),  a  lawyer  of  the  burliest  rank. 


SCENES    FROM    PICKWICK.  445 

sternly  at  Sain  for  full  two  minutes,  but  Sam's  features  were  so 
perfectly  calm  and  sercno  that  he  said  nothing,  and  motioned 
Sergeant  Buzfuz  to  proceed. 

G.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Sergeant  Buz- 
fuz, folding  his  arms  emphatically,  and  turning  half  round  to 
the  jury,  as  if  in  mute  assurance  he  would  bother  the  witnt  ss 
yet — "  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,  Mr.  Weller,  that  you  saw  noth- 
ing of  this  fainting  on  the  part  of  the  plaintiff  in  the  arms  of 
the  defendant,  which  you  have  heard  described  by  the  wit- 
nesses ?"  "  Certainly  not,"  replied  Sam.  "  I  was  in  the  passago 
till  the  v  called  me  up,  and  then  the  old  lady  was  not  there." 

7.  "  Now  attend,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz,  dipping  a 
large  nun  into  the  inkstand  before  him,  for  the  purpose  of  fright- 
ening Sam  with  a  show  of  taking  down  his  answer,  "  you  wcro 
in  the  passage  and  yet  saw  nothing  of  what  was  going  forward. 
Have  you  a  pair  of  eves,  Mr.  Weller?"  "Yes,  I  have  a  pair  cf 
eyes,"  replied  Sam,  "  and  that's  just  it.  If  they  wos  a  pair  o' 
patent  double  million  magnifyin'  gas  microscopes  of  hextra 
power,  p'raps  I  might  be  able  to  see  through  a  ilight  o'  stairs  and 
a  deal  door  ;  but  bein'  only  eyes,  you  see,  my  wision's  limited." 

8.  At  this  answer,  which  was  delivered  without  the  slightest 
appearanco  of  irritation,-  and  with  the  most  complete  simplicity 
and  equanimity  of  manner,  the  spectators  tittered,  the  little 
judge  smiled,  and  Sergeant  Buzfuz  looked  particularly  foolish. 
After  a  short  consultation  vs'ith  Dodson  and  Fogg,  the  learnt  d 
sergeant  again  turned  to  Sam,  and  said,  with  a  painful  effort  to 
conceal  his  vexation, — "  Now,  Mr.  Weller,  111  ask  you  a  ques- 
tion on  another  point,  if  you  please."  "  If  you  please,  sir," 
rejoined  Sam,  with  the  utmost  good-humor. 

9.  "Do  you  remember  going  up  to  Mrs.  BardelTa  house,  one 
night  in  November  last?"  "Oh,  yes  ;  wcrv  well."  "Oh,  vou 
do  remember  that,  Mr.  Weller,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz,  recover- 
ing his  spirits,  "  I  thought  we  should  get  at  something  at  last." 
"I  rather  thought  that,  too,  sir,"  replied  Sam  ;  and  at  this  tho 
spectators  tittered  again.     "  Well ;  I  suppose  you  went  up  to 

lave  a  little  talk  about  this  trial — eh,  Mr.  Weller  T  said  Ser- 
geant Buzfuz,  looking  knowingly  at  the  jury.  "I  went  up  to 
pay  Vhe  rent ;  but  we  did  gefc  a  talking  about  the  trial,"  replied 
Sam.    \"  Oh,  vou  did  get  a  talking  about  the  trial,"  said  Ser- 


44:6  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

important  discovery.     "Now  what  passed  about  the  trial ;  will 
you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  us,  Mr.  Weller  ?" 

10.  "Yith  all  the  pleasure  in  my  life,  sir,"  replied  Sam.  "  Arter 
a  few  unimportant  observations  from  the  two  wirtuous  females 
as  has  been  examined  here  to-day,  the  ladies  gets  into  a  wery 
great  state  o'  admiration  at  the  honorable  conduct  of  Mr.  Dod- 
son  and  Fogg — them  two  genTmen  as  is  sittin'  near  you  now." 
This,  of  course,  drew  general  attention  to  Dodson  and  Fogg, 
who  looked  as  virtuous  as  possible.  "  The  attorneys  for  the 
plaintiff,"  said  Mr.  Sergeant  Buzfuz  ;  "  well,  they  spoke  in  high 
praise  of  the  honorable  conduct  of  Messrs.  Dodson  and  Fogg, 
the  attorneys  for  the  plaintiff,  did  they  ?"  "  Yes,"  said  Sam  ; 
"  they  said  what  a  wery  gen'rous  thing  it  was  o'  them  to  have 
taken  up  the  case  on  spec,  and  to  charge  nothin'  at  all  for  costs, 
unless  they  got  'em  out  of  Mr.  Pickwick." 

11.  At  this  very  unexpected  reply,  the  spectators  tittered 
again,  and  Dodson  and  Fogg,  turning  very  red,  leaned  over  to 
Sergeant  Buzfuz,  and  in  a  hurried  manner  whispered  something 
in  his  ear.  "  You  are  quite  right,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz  aloud, 
with  affected  composure.  "  It's  perfectly  useless,  my  lord,  at- 
tempting to  get  at  any  evidence  through  the  impenetrable  stu- 
pidity of  this  witness.  I  will  not  trouble  the  court  by  asking 
him  any  more  questions.     Stand  down,  sir." 

12.  "  Would  any  other  gen 'I'm  an  like  to  ask  me  any  thin'  ?" 
inquired  Sam,  taking  up  his  hat,  and  looking  round  most  delib- 
erately. "Not  I,  Mr.  Weller,  thank  you,"  said  Sergeant  Snub- 
bin,  laughing.  "You  may  go  down,  sir,"  said  Sergeant  Buzfuz, 
waving  his  hand  impatiently.  Sam  went  down  accordingly, 
after  doing  Messrs.  Dodson  and  Fogg's  case  as  much  harm  as 
he  conveniently  could,  and  saying  just  as  little  respecting  Mr. 
Pickwick  as  might  be,  which  was  precisely  the  object  he  had  in 
view  all  along.  Dickens. 

Charles  Dickens,  tliG  famous  English  novelist,  -was  born  at  Portsmouth,  in 
February,  1812.  At  an  curly  period  he  became  reporter  for  the  newspaper  press 
of  London,  and  thus  escaped  the  cramping  necessity  of  depending  for  subsist- 
ence upon  his  first  purely  literary  labors.  His  earliest  work?,  "  Sketches  by  Boz," 
first  written  for  periodicals,  were  collected  and  published  in  two  volumes,  bear- 
ing respectively  the  dates  of  1836  and  1837.  His  works  immediately  succeeding, 
"Pickwick,"  "Oliver  Twist,"  and  "Nicholas  Nickleby,"  fully  established  his 
reputation.  The  " Pickwick  Papers,"  from  which  the  preceding  scenes  were 
selected,  is  one  of  his  best  works.  He  has  probably  never  drawn  a  character 
more  original  in  conception  and  more  happily  sustained  than  that  of  Sam  Weller. 


MY    ORATORICAL    EXPERIENCE  447 

The  career  of  Dickens  has  been  one  of  uniform  success.  His  more  recent  pub- 
lication, "Dombcy  and  Son,"  "David  Copperfleld,"  "Bleak  House,"  and  "  Lit- 
tle Dorrit,"  prove  conclusively  that,  far  from  having  "written  himself  out,"  the 
resources  of  his  mind  arc  well-nigh  inexhaustible.  His  genius,  which  has 
peopled  our  literature  with  such  a  crowd  of  living  and  moving  characters,  gives 
promise  of  as  many  new  creations,  equally  varied  and  true  to  nature.  He  is 
now  editor  of  "All  the  Year  Round,"  a  first  class  magazine. 

IV. 
143.     MY    ORATORICAL    EXPERIENCE.1 

fTlHE  Mayor  had  got  up  to  propose  another  toast  ;  and, 
1  listening  rather  inattentively  to  the  first  sentence  or  two, 
I  soon  became  sensible  of  a  drift  in  his  Worship's  remarks  that 
made  me  glance  ajiprchensively  toward  Sergeant  Wilkins. 
"  Yes,"  grumbled  that  gruff  personage,  shoving  a  decanter  of 
Port  toward  me,  "it  is  your  turn  next";  and  seeing  in  my 
face,  I  suppose,  the  consternation  of  a  wholly  unpracticed 
orator,  he  kindly  added, — "It  is  nothing.  A  mere  acknowl- 
edgment will  answer  the  purpose.  The  less  you  say,  the  better 
they  will  like  it."  That  being  the  case,  I  suggested  that  per- 
haps they  would  like  it  best  if  I  said  nothing  at  all.  But  the 
Sergeant  shook  his  head. 

2.  Now,  on  first  receiving  the  Mayor's  invitation  to  dinner, 
it  had  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  possibly  be  brought  into 
my  present  predicament ;  but  I  had  dismissed  the  ide'a  from 
my  mind  as  too  disagreeable  to  be  entertained,  and,  moreover, 
as  so  alien  from  my  disposition  and  character  that  Fate  surely 
could  not  keep  such  a  misfortune  in  store  for  me.  If  nothing 
else  prevented,  an  earthquake  or  the  crack  of  doom  would  cer- 
tainly interfere  before  I  need  rise  to  speak.  Yet  here  was  the 
Mayor  getting  on  inex'orably, — and,  indeed,  I  heartily  wished 
that  he  might  get  on  and  on  forever,  and  of  his  wordy  wander- 
ings find  no  end. 

3.  If  the  gentle  reader,  my  kindest  friend  and  closest  confi- 
dant, deigns  to  desire  it,  I  can  impart  to  him  my  own  experi- 
ence as  a  public  speaker  quite  as  indifferently  as  if  it  concerned 
another  person.     Indeed,  it  does  concern  another,  or  a  mere 

1  The  author,  in  an  article  which  the    following    humorous     account 

describes  the  Civic  Banquets,  which  of  the   oratorical   ordeal  he  passed 

he  attended  in  London,  while  United  at   one  of  the   Mayor's  dinner-par- 

States  Consul    at    Liverpool,  gives  tics. 


448  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

spectral  phenomenon,  for  it  "was  not  I,  in  my  proper  and  natn- 
ral  self,  that  sat  there  at  table  or  subsequently  rose  to  speak. 

d.  At  the  moment,  then,  if  the  choice  had  been  offered  me 
whether  the  Mayor  should  let  off  a  speech  at  my  head  or  a  pis- 
tol, I  should  unhesitatingly  have  taken  the  latter  alternative.  I 
had  really  nothing  to  say,  not  an  idea  in  my  head,  nor,  which 
was  a  good  deal  worse,  any  flowing  words  or  embroidered  sen- 
tences in  vrhich  to  dress  out  that  empty  Nothing,  and  give  it  a 
cunning  aspect  of  intelligence,  such  as  might  last  the  poor 
vacuity  the  little  time  it  had  to  live. 

5.  But  time  pressed  ;  the  Mayor  brought  his  remarks,  affec- 
tionately eulogistic  of  the  United  States  and  highly  compli- 
mentary to  their  distinguished  representative  at  that  table,  to 
a  close,  amid  a  vast  deal  of  cheering  ;  and  the  band  struck  up 
"  Hail  Columbia,"  I  believe,  though  it  might  have  been  "  Old 
Hundred,"  or  "God  save  the  Queen"  over  again,  for  anything 
that  I  should  have  known  or  cared.  When  the  music  ceased, 
there  was  an  intensely  disagreeable  instant,  during  which  I 
seemed  to  rend  away  and  fling  off  the  habit  of  a  lifetime,  and 
rose,  still  void  of  ideas,  but  with  preternatural  composure,  to 
make  a  speech. 

G.  The  guests  rattled  on  the  table,  and  cried  "Hear!"  most 
vociferously,  as  if  now,  at  length,  in  this  foolish  and  idly  gar- 
rulous world,  had  come  the  long-expected  moment  when  one 
golden  word  was  to  be  spoken  ;  and  in  that  imminent  crisis,  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  a  little  bit  of  an  effusion  of  international 
sentiment  which  it  might  and  must  and  should  do  to  utter. 

7.  Well ;  it  was  nothing,  as  the  Sergeant  had  said.  What 
surprised  me  most  was  the  sound  of  my  own  voice,  which  I  had 
never  before  heard  at  a  declamatory  pitch,  and  which  impress- 
ed me  as  belonging  to  some  other  person,  who,  and  not  myself, 
would  be  responsible  for  the  speech  :  a  prodigious  consolation 
and  encouragement  under  the  circumstances  ! 

8.  I  went  on  without  the  slightest  embarrassment,  and  sat 
down  amid  great  applause,  wholly  undeserved  by  anything  that 
I  had  spoken,  but  well  won  from  Englishmen,  mcthought,  by 
the  new  development  of  pluck  that  alone  had  enabled  me  to 
speak  at  all.  "It  was  handsomely  done  !"  quoth  Sergeant  Wil- 
luns  ;  and  I  felt  like  a  recruit  who  had  been  for  the  first  time 
under  tire. 


MY    ORATORICAL    EXPERIENCE  419 

9.  I  would  gladly  have  ended  my  oratorical  career  then  and 
there  forever,  but  was  often  placed  in  a  similar  or  worse  posi- 
tion, and  compelled  to  meet  it  an  I  best  might ;  for  this  was 
one  of  the  necessities  of  an  office  which  I  had  voluntarily  taken 
on  my  shoulders,  and  beneath  which  I  might  bo  crushed  by  no 
moral  delinquency  on  my  own  part,  but  could  not  shirk  without 
cowardice  and  shame.     My  subsequent  fortune  was  various. 

10.  Once,  though  I  felt  it  to  be  a  kind  of  imposture,  I  got  a 
speech  by  heart,  and  doubtless  it  might  have  been  a  very  pretty  ■ 
one,  only  I  forgot  every  syllable  at  the  moment  of  need,  and 
had  to  improvise 3  another  as  well  as  I  could.  I  found  it  a 
better  method  to  pre-arrange  a  few  points  in  my  mind,  and 
trust  to  the  spur  of  the  occasion,  and  the  kind  aid  of  Provi- 
dence for  enabling  me  to  bring  them  to  bear. 

11.  The  presence  of  any  considerable  proportion  cf  personal 
friends  generally  dumbfounded  me.  I  would  rather  have  talked 
with  an  enemy  in  the  gate.  Invariably,  too,  I  was  much  em- 
barrassed by  a  small  audience,  and  succeeded  better  with  a 
large  one, — the  sympathy  of  a  multitude  possessing  a  buoyant 
effect,  which  lifts  the  speaker  a  little  way  out  cf  his  individual- 
ity and  tosses  him  toward  a  perhaps  better  range  of  sentiment 
than  his  private  one. 

12.  Again,  if  I  rose  carelessly  and  confidently,  with  an  ex- 
pectation  of  going  through  the  business  entirely  at  my  ease,  I 
often  found  that  I  had  little  or  nothing  to  say  ;  whereas,  if  I 
came  to  the  scratch  in  perfect  despair,  anel  at  a  crisis  when 
failure  would  have  been  horrible,  it  once  or  twice  happcucel 
that  the  frightful  emergency  concentrated  my  poor  faculties, 
anel  enabled  me  to  give  definite  anel  vigorous  expression  to  sen- 
timents which  an  instant  before  lookeel  as  vague  and  far-off  as 
the  clouds  in  the  atmosphere. 

13.  On  the  whole,  poor  as  my  own  success  may  have  been,  I 
apprehend  that  any  intelligent  man  with  a  tongue  possesses  the 
chief  requisite  of  oratorical  power,  and  may  develop  many  of 
the  others,  if  he  deems  it  worth  while  to  bestow  a  great  amount 
of  labor  and  pains  on  an  object  which  the  most  aecompliskcel 
orators,  I  suspect,  have  not  found  altogether  satisfactory  to 
their  highest  impulses.     At  any  rate,  it  must  bo  a  remarkably 

1  Pretty  (prft'tl).  ranoously,  or  off-hand,  without  pre- 

*  Im'provise\  to  speak  extempo-     vioua  preparation. 


450  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

true  man  who  can  keep  his  own  elevated  conception  of  truth 

when  the  lower  feeling  of  a  multitude  is  assailing  his  natural 

sympathies,  and  who  can  speak  out  frankly  the  best  that  there 

is  in  him,  when  by  adulterating  it  a  little,  or  a  good  deal,  he 

knows  that  he  may  make  it  ten  times  a3  acceptable  to  the 

audience.  Hawthorne. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  an  American  novelist  and  essayist,  was  born  in 
Salem,  Massachusetts,  July  4th,  1804.  Owing  to  ill  health,  at  the  age  of  ten 
years,  he  left  home  to  try  the  effects  of  farm-life,  going  to  a  farm  owired  by  the 
family,  and  located  on  the  shores  of  Sebago  Lake,  Maine.  He  returned  to 
Salem,  resumed  his  studies,  and  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College  in  1825.  In  1837 
he  collected  his  early  contributions  to  magazines,  and  published  them  under  the 
title  of  "Twice-told  Tales."  The  work  was  highly  lauded  by  the  N.  A.  Review. 
It  was  republished,  with  a  second  series,  in  1S43.  Probably  his  most  popular 
romances  are  the  "Scarlet  Letter,"  " The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables,"  and  the 
"  Marble  Faun."  During  the  administration  of  President  Pierce,  he  was  U.  S. 
Consul  at  Liverpool.  This  office  he  resigned  in  1S57.  He  died  suddenly,  while 
on  a  journey  to  the  White  Mountains  for  his  health,  at  Plymouth,  New  Hamp- 
shire, May  19,  1864.  Mr.  Hawthorne's  literary  reputation  was  not  confined  to 
the  United  States.  His  most  important  works  have  been  republished  and 
widely  read  in  England,  and,  in  the  form  of  translations,  in  Germany 


SECTION     XXVII. 

I. 

144.     A    FOREST    NOOK. 

A  NOOK  within  the  forest ;  overhead 
The  branches  arch,  and  shape  a  pleasant  bower, 
Breaking  white  cloud,  blue  sky,  and  sunshine  bright, 
Into  pure  ivory  and  sapphire  spots, 
And  flecks  of  gold ;  a  soft  cool  emerald  tint 
Colors  the  air,  as  though  the  delicate  leaves 
Emitted  self-born  light.     What  splendid  walls 
And  what  a  gorgeous  roof  carved  by  the  hand 
Of  glorious  Nature ! 

2.  Here  the  spruce  thrusts  in 

Its  bristling  plume,  tipped  with  its  pale-green  points  ; 

The  scalloped  beech  leaf,  and  the  birch's,  cut 

Into  firm  rugged  edges,  interlace  : 

While  here  and  there,  through  clefts,  the  laurel  lifts 

Its  snowy  chalices  half -brim med  with  dew, 


A    FOREST   NOOK.  451 


As  though  to  hoard  it  for  the  haunting  elves 
The  moonlight  calls  to  thi3  their  festal  hall. 
A  thick,  rich,  grassy  carpet  clothes  the  earth, 
Sprinkled  with  autumn  leaves.     The  fern  displays 
Its  fluted  wreath,  beaded  beneath  with  drops 
Of  richest  brown  ;  the  wild-rose  spreads  its  breast 
Of  delicate  pink,  and  the  o'erhanging  fir 
Has  dropped  its  dark,  long  cone. 

3.  The  scorching  glare 
Without,  makes  this  green  nest  a  grateful  haunt 
For  summer's  radiant  things  ;  the  butterfly 
Fluttering  within  and  resting  on  some  flower, 
Fans  his  rich  velvet  form  ;  the  toiling  bee 

Shoots  by,  with  sounding  hum  and  mist-like  wings  ; 

The  robin  perches  on  the  bending  spray 

"With  shrill,  quick  chirp  ;  and  like  a  flake  of  fire 

The  redbird  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  leaves. 

And  now  and  then  a  flutter  overhead 

In  the  thick  green,  betrays  some  wandering  wing 

Coming  and  going,  yet  concealed  from  sight. 

A  shrill,  loud  outcry — on  yon  highest  bough 

Sits  the  gray  squirrel,  in  his  burlesque  wrath 

Stamping  and  chattering  fiercely  :  now  he  drops 

A  hoarded  nut,  then  at  my  smiling  gaze 

Buries  himself  within  the  foliage. 

4.  The  insect  tribe  arc  hero  :  the  ant  toils  on 
"With  its  white  burden  ;  in  its  netted  web 
Gray  glistening  o'er  the  bush,  the  spider  lurks, 
A  close  crouched  ball,  out-darting  as  a  hum 

Tells  its  trapped  prey,  and  looping  quick  its  threads, 

Chains  into  helplessness  the  buzzing  wings. 

The  wood-tick  taps  its  tiny  muffled  drum 

To  the  shrill  cricket-fife,  and  swelling  loud, 

The  grasshopper  its  swelling  bugle  winds. 

Those  breaths  of  Nature,  the  light  fluttering  air3, 

Like  gentle  respirations,  come  and  go, 

Lift  on  its  crimson  stem  the  niaple  leaf, 

Displaying  its  white  lining  underneath, 

And  sprinkle  from  the  tree-tops  golden  rain 

Of  sunshine  on  the  velvet  sward  below. 


452  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

5.  Such  nooks  as  this  are  common  in  the  woods  : 

And  all  these  sights  and  sounds  the  commonest 

In  Nature,  when  she  wears  her  summer  prime. 

Yet  by  them  pass  not  lightly  :  to  the  wiso 

They  tell  the  beauty  and  the  harmony 

Of  e'en  the  lowliest  things  that  God  has  made ; 

That  his  familiar  earth  and  sky  are  full 

Of  his  ineffable  power  and  majesty  ; 

That  in  the  humble  objects,  seen  too  6ft 

To  be  regarded,  is  such  wondrous  grace, 

The  art  of  man  is  Tain  to  imitate  ; 

That  the  low  flower  our  careless  foot  treads  down 

Is  a  rich  shrine  of  incense  delicate, 

And  radiant  beautv,  and  that  God  hath  formed 

All,  from  the  cloud-wreathed  mountain,  to  the  grain 

Of  silver  sand  the  bubbling  spring  casts  up, 

"With  deepest  forethought  and  severest  care. 

And  thus  these  noteless  lovely  things  are  types 

Of  his  perfection  and  divinity.  A.  B.  Street. 

n. 

145.     FOREST    TREES. 

I  HAVE  paused  mure  than  once  in  the  wilderness  of  America, 
to  contem'plate  the  traces  of  some  blast  of  wind,  which 
seemed  to  have  rushed  down  from  the  clouds,  and  ripped  its 
way  through  the  bosom  of  the  woodlands  ;  rooting  up,  shiver- 
ing, and  splintering  the  stoutest  trees,  and  leaving  a  long  track 
of  desolation.  There  is  something  awful  in  the  vast  havoc  made 
among  these  gigantic  plants  ;  and  in  considering  their  magnifi- 
cent remains,  so  rudely  torn  and  mangled,  hurled  down  to  per- 
ish prematurely  on  their  native  soil,  I  was  conscious  of  a  strong 
movement  of  sympathy  wife  the  wood-nymphs,  grieving  to  be 
dispossessed  of  their  ancient  habitations. 

2.  I  recollect  also  hearing  a  traveler  of  poetical  temperament, 
expressing  the  kind  of  horror  which  he  felt  in  beholding,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Missouri,  an  oak  of  prodigious  size,  which  had  been 
in  a  manner  overpowered  by  an  enormous  wild  grape-Tine.  The 
vine  had  clasped  its  huge  folds  round  the  trunk,  and  from  thence 
had  wound  about  every  branch  and  twig,  until  the  mighty  tree 


FOREST    TREES.  453 

had  withered  in  its  embrace.  It  seemed  like  Laoc'oon  '  strag- 
gling ineffectually  in  the  hideous  coils  of  the  monster  Python.3  It 
was  tlia  lion  of  trees  perishing  in  the  embraces  of  a  \         tble  Vj<  >a. 

3.  I  am  fond  of  listening  to  the  conversation  of  English  gen- 
tlemen on  rural  concerns,  and  of  noticing  with  what  taste  and 
discrimination,  and  what  strong,  unaffected  interest,  they  will 
discuss  topics,  which,  in  other  countries,  arc  abandoned  to 
mere  woodmen  or  rustic  cultivators.  I  have  heard  a  noble  carl 
descant  on  park  and  forest  scenery,  with  the  science  and  feeling 
of  a  painter.  Ho  dwelt  on  the  shape  and  beauty  of  particular 
trees  on  his  estate  with  as  much  pride  and  technical  precision 
a3  though  he  had  been  discussing  the  merits  of  statues  in  his 
collection.  I  found  that  he  had  gone  considerable  distances  to 
examine  trees  which  were  celebrated  among  rural  amateurs' ; 
for  it  seems  that  trees,  like  horses,  have  their  established  points 
of  excellence,  and  that  there  arc  some  in  England  which  enjoy 
very  extensive  celebrity  from  being  perfect  in  their  kind. 

•1.  There  is  something  nobly  simple  and  pure  in  such  a  taste. 
It  argues,  I  think,  a  sweet  and  generous  nature,  to  have  this 
strong  relish  for  the  beauties  of  vegetation,  and  thi3  friendship 
for  the  hardy  and  glorious  sons  of  the  forest.  There  is  a  grand- 
eur of  thought  connected  with  this  part  of  rural  economy.  It  ic;, 
if  I  may  be  allowed  the  figure,  the  heroic  line  of  husbandry.  It 
is  worthy  of  liberal,  and  free-born,  and  aspiring  men.  He  who 
plants  an  oak  looks  forward  to  future  ages,  and  plants  for  pos- 
terity. Nothing  can  be  less  selfish  than  this.  He  can  not  ex- 
pect to  sit  in  its  shade  nor  enjoy  its  shelter  ;  but  he  exults  in  the 
idea  that  the  acorn  which  he  has  buried  in  the  earth  shall  grow 
up  into  a  lofty  pile,  and  shall  keep  on  flourishing,  and  increas- 

1  La  5c'  oon,  a  Trojan,  and  a  priest  an  J  lii3  two  sons  entwined  by  the 

of  Apollo,  who  tried  to  dissuade  his  two  serpents,  is  still  extant,  and  prc- 

couutrym:ni  from  drawing  into  the  served  in  the  Vatican,  at  Rome, 
city  the  wooden  horse  of  the  Greeks,         '  Py'  thon,  a   celebrated   serpent 

which  finally  caused  the  overthrow  that   lived  in  the  caves  of  Mount 

of  Troy.     When  preparing  to  sacri-  Parnassus,  but  was  slain  by  Apollo, 

fice  a  bull  to  Xeptune,  two  fearful  who  founded  the  Pythian  games  in 

serpents  suddenly  rushed  upon  him  commemoration  of  his  victory,  and 

and  his  two  sons,  and  strangled  them,  received,  in  consequence,   tho   sur- 

His  death  formed  the  subject  of  many  name  Pythius.    This,  however,  was 

ancient  works  of  art ;  and  a  magnifi-  not  one  of  the  serpents  that  destroy, 

cent  group,  representing  the  father  ed  Laocoon. 


454  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER, 

ing,  and  benefiting  mankind,  long  after  lie  shall  have  ceased  to 
tread  his  paternal  fields. 

5.  Indeed,  it  is  the  nature  of  such  occupations  to  lift  the 
thought  above  mere  worldliness.  As  the  leaves  of  trees  are  said 
to  absorb  all  noxious  qualities  of  the  air,  and  breathe  forth  a 
purer  atmosphere,  so  it  seems  to  me  as  if  they  drew  from  us  all 
sordid  and  angry  passions,  and  breathed  forth  peace  and  philan- 
thropy. There  is  a  serene  and  settled  majesty  in  woodland 
scenery  that  enters  into  the  soul,  and  dilates  and  elevates  it,  and 
fills  it  with  noble  inclinations.  The  ancient  and  hereditary 
groves,  too,  that  embower  this  island,  are  ■  most  of  them  full  of 
story.  They  are  haunted  by  the  recollections  of  the  great 
spirits  of  past  ages,  who  have  sought  for  relaxation  among  them, 
from  the  tumult  of  arms,  or  the  toils  of  state,  or  have  wooed  the 
muse  beneath  their  shade. 

6.  It  is  becoming,  then,  for  the  high  and  generous  spirits  of 
an  ancient  nation  to  cherish  these  sacred  groves  that  surround 
their  ancestral  mansions,  and  to  perpetuate  them  to  their  de- 
scendants. Brought  up,  as  I  have  been,  in  republican  habits 
and  principles,  I  can  feel  nothing  of  the  serv'ile  reverence  for 
titled  rank,  merely  because  it  is  titled.  But  I  trust  I  am  neither 
churl  nor  bigot  in  my  creed.  I  do  see  and  feel  how  hereditary 
distinction,  when  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  a  generous  mind,  may  ele- 
vate that  mind  into  true  nobility. 

7.  It  is  one  of  the  effects  of  hereditary  rank,  when  it  falls  thus 
happily,  that  it  multiplies  the  duties,  and,  as  it  were,  extends  the 
existence  of  the  possessor.  He  does  not  feel  himself  a  mere  in- 
dividual link  in  creation,  responsible  only  for  his  own  brief  term 
of  being.  Ho  carries  back  his  existence  in  proud  recollection, 
and  ho  extends  it  forward  in  honorable  anticipation.  He  lives 
with  his  ancestry,  and  he  lives  with  his  posterity.  To  both  does 
he  consider  himself  involved  in  deep  responsibilities.  As  he  has 
received  much  from  those  that  have  gone  before,  so  he  feels 
bound  to  transmit  much  to  those  who  are  to  come  after  him. 

8.  His  domestic  undertakings  seem  to  imply  a  longer  exist- 
ence than  those  of  ordinary  men.  None  are  so  apt  to  build  and 
plant  for  future  centuries,  as  noble-spirited  men  who  have  re- 
ceived their  heritages  from  foregoing  ages.  I  can  easily  imagine, 
therefore,  the  fondness  and  pride  with  which  I  have  noticed 
English  gentlemen,  of  generous  temperaments,  but  high  aristo- 


GODS    FIRST    TEMPLES.  455 

cratic  feelings,  contem'plating  those  magnificent  trees,  which 
rise  liko  towers  and  pyramids  from  the  midst  of  their  paternal 
lands.  There  is  an  affinity  between  all  natures,  animate  and  in- 
animate. The  oak,  in  the  pride  and  lustihood  of  its  growth, 
seems  to  mo  to  take  its  range  with  the  lion  and  the  eagle,  and 
to  assimilate,  in  the  grandeur  of  its  attributes,  to  heroic  and  in- 
tellectual man. 

0.  With  its  mighty  pillar  rising  straight  and  direct  toward  * 
heaven,  bearing  up  its  leafy  honors  from  the  impurities  of 
earth,  and  supporting  them  aloft  in  free  air  and  glorious  sun- 
shine, it  is  an  emblem  of  what  a  true  nobleman  should  be  :  a 
refuge  for  the  weak, — a  shelter  for  the  oppressed, — a  defence  for 
the  defenceless  ;  warding  6ft'  from  them  the  peltings  of  the 
storm,  or  the  scorching  rays  of  arbitrary  power.  He  who  is 
this,  is  an  ornament  and  a  blessing  to  his  native  land.  He  who 
i3  otherwise,  abuses  his  eminent  advantages  ; — abuses  the  grand- 
cur  and  prosperity  which  he  has  drawn  from  the  bosom  of  his 
country.  Should  tempests  arise,  and  he  be  laid  prostrate  by  the 
storm,  who  would  mourn  over  his  fall  ?  Should  he  be  borne 
down  by  the  oppressive  hand  of  power,  who  would  murmur  at 
his  fate  ? — "  Why  cumbereth  he  the  ground  ?"  Ikvikg. 

in. 

146.     GOD'S    FIRST    TE3IPLES. 

THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.   Ere  man  learned 
To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 
And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems, — in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 
Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences, 
That,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 
And  from  the  gray  old  trunks,  that,  high  in  heaven, 
Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 
Of  the  invisible  breath,  that  swaved  at  once 
All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 
His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  Power 


456  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

And  inaccessible  Majesty.     Ah  !  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roof3 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn  ;  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  his  ear. 

2.  Father,  thy  hand 
Hath  reared  these  venerable  columns  :  thou 

Didst  weave  this  verdant  roof.     Thou  didst  look  down 
Upon  the  naked  earth,  and,  forthwith,  rose 
All  these  fair  ranks  of  trees.     They  in  thy  sun 
Budded,  and  shook  their  green  leaves  in  thy  breeze, 
And  shot  toward  heaven.     The  century-living  crow, 
"Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died 
Among  their  branches  ;  till,  at  last,  they  stood, 
As  now  they  stand,  massy,  and  tali,  and  dark, 
Fit  shrine  for  humble  worshiper  to  hold 
Communion  with  his  Maker. 

3.  Hero  are  seen 
No  traces  of  man's  pomp  or  prido  ;  no  silks 
Hustle,  no  jewels  shine,  nor  envious  eyes 
Encounter  ;  no  fantastic  carvings  show 

The  boast  of  our  vain  race  to  change  the  form 
Of  thy  fair  works.     But  thou  art  here  ;  thou  filTst 
The  solitude.     Thou  art  in  the  soft  winds 
That  run  along  the  summits  of  these  trec3 
In  music  ;  thou  art  in  the  cooler  breath, 
That,  from  the  inmost  darkness  of  the  place, 
Comes,  scarcely  felt ;  the  barky  trunks,  the  ground, 
The  fresh,  moist  ground,  are  all  instinct  with  thee. 

4.  Here  is  continual  worship  ;  nature,  here, 
In  the  tranquillity  that  thou  dost  love, 
Enjoys  thy  presence.     Noiselessly,  around, 
From  perch  to  perch,  the  solitary  bird 

Passes  ;  and  yon  clear  spring,  that,  midst  its  Zierbs, 
Wells  softly  forth,  and  visits  the  strong  roots 
Of  half  the  mighty  forest,  tells  no  tale 
Of  all  the  good  it  does. 


GOD'S    FIRST    TEMPLES.  457 

5.  Tliou  hast  not  left 
Thyself  without  a  witness,  in  these  shades, 

Of  thy  perfections.     Grandeur,  strength,  and  grace, 

Are  here  to  speak  of  thee.     This  mighty  oak — 

By  whose  immovable  stem  I  stand,  and  seem 

Almost  annihilated — not  a  prince, 

In  all  the  proud  old  world  beyond  the  deep, 

E'er  wore  his  crown  as  loftily  as  he 

"Wears  the  green  coronal  of  leaves,  with  which 

Thy  hand  has  graced  him.     Nestled  at  his  root 

Is  beauty,  such  as  blooms  not  in  the  glare 

Of  the  broad  sim.     That  delicate  forest  flower, 

"With  scented  breath,  and  look  so  like  a  smile, 

Seems,  as  it  issues  from  the  shapeless  mold, 

An  emanation  of  the  indwelling  Life, 

A  visible  token  of  the  upholding  Love, 

That  are  the  soul  of  this  wide  universe. 

6.  My  heart  is  awed  within  me,  when  I  think 
Of  the  great  miracle  that  still  goes  on, 

In  silence,  round  me — the  perpetual  work 
Of  thy  creation,  finished,  yet  renewed 
Forever.     Written  on  thy  works,  I  read 
The  lesson  of  thy  own  eternity. 
Lo  !  all  grow  old  and  die  :  but  see,  again, 
How,  on  the  faltering  footsteps  of  decay, 
Youth  presses — ever  gay  and  beautiful  youth — . 
In  all  its  beautiful  forms.     These  loftv  trees 
"Wave  not  less  proudly  that  their  ancestors 
Holder  beneath  them. 

7.  Oh  !  there  is  not  lost 
One  of  earth's  charms  :  upon  her  bosom  yet, 
After  the  flight  of  untold  centuries, 

The  freshness  of  her  far  beginning  lies, 
And  yet  shall  lie.     Life  mocks  the  idle  hato 
Of  his  arch  enemy  Death  ;  yea,  seats  himself 
Upon  the  sepulcher,  and  blooms  and  smiles, 
And  of  the  triumphs  of  his  ghastly  foe 
Makes  his  own  nourishment.     For  he  came  forth 
From  thine  own  bosom,  and  shall  have  no  end. 

20 


458  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

8.  There  have  been  holy  men,  who  hid  themselves 
Deep  in  the  woody  wilderness,  and  gave 

Their  lives  to  thought  and  prayer0  till  they  outlived 
The  generation  born  with  them,  nor  seemed 
Less  aged  than  the  hoary  trees  and  rocks 
Around  them  ;  and  there  have  been  holy  men, 
"Who  deemed  it  were  not  well  to  pass  life  thus. 
But  let  me  often  to  these  solitudes 
Eetire,  and,  in  thy  presence,  reassure 
My  feeble  virtue.     Here,  its  enemies, 
The  passions,  at  thy  plainer  footsteps,  shrink, 
And  tremble,  and  are  still. 

9.  O  God !  when  thou 
Dost  scare  the  world  with  tempests,  set  on  fire 
The  heavens  with  falling  thunderbolts,  or  fill, 
With  all  the  waters  of  the  firmament, 
The  swift,  dark  whirlwind,  that  uproots  the  woods, 
And  drowns  the  villages  ;  when,  at  thy  call, 
Uprises  the  great  deep,  and  throws  himself 
Upon  the  continent,  and  overwhelms 
Its  cities  ; — who  forgets  not,  at  the  sight 
Of  these  tremendous  tokens  of  thy  power, 
His  pride,  and  lays  his  strifes  and  follies  by  ! 
Oh  !  from  these  sterner  aspects  of  thy  face 
Spare  me  and  mine  ;  nor  let  us  need  the  wrath 
Of  the  mad,  unchained  elements,  to  teach 
Who  rules  them.     Be  it  ours  to  meditate, 
In  these  calm  shades,  thy  milder  majesty, 
And  to  the  beautiful  order  of  thy  works 
Learn  to  conform  the  order  of  our  lives.  Bkyant. 

IV. 

147.     LANDSCAPE    BEAUTY. 

IT  is  easy  enough  to  understand  how  the  sight  of  a  picture  or 
statue  should  affect  us  nearly  in  the  same  way  as  the  sight  of 
the  original  :  nor  is  it  much  more  difficult  to  conceive,  how  the 
sight  of  a  cottage  should  give  us  something  of  the  same  feeling 
as  the  sight  of  a  peasant's  family  ;  and  the  aspect  of  a  town 
raise  many  of  the  same  ideas  as  the  appearance  of  a  multitude 


LANDSCAPE    BEAUTY.  459 

of  persons.  "We  may  begin,  therefore,  with  an  example  a  little 
more  complicated.  Take,  for  instance,  tho  case  of  a  common 
English  landscape — green  meadows  with  grazing  and  ruminating 
cattle — canals  or  navigable  rivers — well-fenced,  well  cultivated 
fields — neat,  clean,  scattered  cottages — humble  antique  churches, 
with  church-yard  elms,  and  crossing  hedgerows, — all  seen  under 
bright  skies,  and  in  good  weather. 

2.  There  is  much  beauty,  as  every  one  will  acknowledge,  in 
such  a  scene.  But  in  what  does  the  beauty  consist  ?  Not  cer- 
tainly in  the  mere  mixture  of  colors  and  forms  ;  for  colors  more 
pleasing,  and  lines  more  graceful  (according  to  any  theory  of 
grace  that  may  be  preferred),  might  be  spread  upon  a  board,  or 
a  painter's  pallet,  without  engaging  the  eye  to  a  second  glance, 
or  raising  the  least  emotion  in  the  mind  :  but  in  the  picture  of 
human  happiness  that  is  presented  to  our  imaginations  and 
affections  ;  in  the  visible  and  unequivocal  signs  of  comfort,  and 
cheerful  and  peaceful  enjoyment — and  of  that  secure  and  suc- 
cessful in'dustry  that  insures  its  continuance — and  of  the  piety 
by  which  it  is  exalted — and  of  the  simplicity  by  which  it  is  con- 
trasted with  the  guilt  and  the  fever  of  a  city  life  ;  in  the  images 
of  health,  and  temperance,  and  plenty  which  it  exhibits  to  every 
eye  ;  and  in  the  glimpses  which  it  affords  to  warmer  imagina- 
tions, of  those  primitive  or  fabulous  times,  when  man  was  un- 
corrupted  by  luxury  and  ambition,  and  of  those  humble  retreats 
in  which  wo  still  delight  to  imagine  that  love  and  philosophy 
may  find  an  unpolluted  asy'luni. 

3.  At  all  events,  however,  it  is  human  feeling  that  excites  our 
sympathy,  and  forms  tho  truo  object  of  our  emotions.  It  is 
man,  and  man  alone,  that  we  see  in  the  beauties  of  the  earth 
which  he  inhabits  ;  or,  if  a  more  sensitive  and  extended  sympa- 
thy connect  us  with  the  lower  families  of  animated  nature,  and 
make  us  rejoice  with  the  lambs  that  bleat  on  the  uplands,  or  tho 
cattle  that  repose  in  the  valley,  or  even  with  the  living  plants 
that  drink  the  bright  sun  and  the  balmy  air  beside  them,  it  is 
still  the  idea  of  enjoyment — of  feelings  that  animate  the  exist- 
ence of  sentient  beings — that  calls  forth  all  our  emotions,  and 
is  the  parent  of  all  the  beauty  with  which  we  proceed  to  invest 
the  inanimate  creation  around  us. 

4.  Instead  of  this  quiet  and  tame  English  landscape,  let  us 
now  take  a  Welsh  or  a  Highland  scene,  and  sec  whether  its 


460  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

beauties  will  admit  of  being  explained  on  the  same  principle. 
Here,  we  shall  have  lofty  mountains,  and  rocky  and  lonely  re- 
cesses— tufted  woods  bung  over  precipices — lakes  intersected 
with  castled  promontories — ample  solitudes  of  unplowed  and 
untrodden  valleys — nameless  and  gigantic  ruins — and  mountain 
echoes  repeating  the  scream  of  the  eagle  and  the  roar  of  the 
cataract. 

5.  This,  too,  is  beautiful,  and  to  those  who  can  interpret  the 
language  it  speaks,  far  more  beautiful  than  the  prosperous  scene 
with  which  we  have  contrasted  it.  Yet,  lonely  as  it  is,  it  is  to 
the  recollection  of  man  and  the  suggestion  of  human  feelings 
that  its  beauty  also  is  owing.  The  mere  forms  and  colors  that 
compose  its  visible  appearance  are  no  more  capable  of  exciting 
any  emotion  in  the  mind  than  the  forms  and  colors  of  a  Turkey 
carpet.  It  is  sympathy  with  the  present  or  the  past,  or  the 
imaginary  inhabitants  of  such  a  region,  that  alone  gives  it  either 
interest  or  beauty ;  and  the  delight  of  those  who  behold  it  will 
always  be  found  to  be  in  exact  proportion  to  the  force  of  their 
imaginations  and  the  warmth  of  their  social  affections. 

6.  The  leading  impressions  here  are  those  of  romantic  seclu- 
sion and  prime'val  simplicity ;  lovers  sequestered  in  these  blissful 
solitudes,  "from  towns  and  toils  remote,"  and  rustic  poets  and 
philosophers  communing  with  nature,  and  at  a  distance  from  the 
low  pursuits  and  selfish  malignity  of  ordinary  mortals  :  then 
there  is  the  subhme  impression  of  the  Mighty  Powers  which 
piled  the  mighty  cliffs  upon  each  other,  and  rent  the  mountains 
asunder,  and  scattered  their  giant  fragments  at  their  base,  and 
all  the  images  connected  with  the  monuments  of  ancient  mag- 
nificence and  extinguished  hostility — the  feuds,  and  the  combats, 
and  the  triumphs  of  its  wild  and  primitive  inhabitants,  contrasted 
with  the  stillness  and  desolation  of  the  scenes  where  they  lie 
interred  ;  and  the  romantic  ideas  attached  to  their  ancient  tradi- 
tions, and  the  peculiarities  of  the  actual  life  of  their  descendants 
— their  wild  and  enthusiastic  poetry — their  gloomy  superstitions 
— their  attachment  to  their  chiefs — the  dangers,  and  the  hard- 
ships, and  enjoyments  of  their  lonely  huntings  and  fishings — 
their  pastoral  shielings  on  the  mountains  in  summer — and  tho 
tales  and  the  sports  that  amuse  the  little  groups  that  arc  frozen 
into  their  vast  and  trackless  valleys  in  the  winter. 

7.  Add  to  all  this  the  traces  of  vast  and  obscure  antiquity 


MORNING    HYMN    TO    MOUNT    BLANC.  4G1 

that  arc  impressed  on  the  language  and  the  habits  of  the  people, 
and  on  the  cliffs,  and  caves,  the  gulfy  torrents  of  the  land  ;  and 
the  solemn  and  touching  reflection,  perpetually  recurring,  of  the 
-weakness  and  insignificance  of  perishable  man,  whose  genera- 
tions thus  pass  away  into  oblivion,  with  all  their  toils  and  ambi- 
tion ;  while  nature  holds  on  her  unvarying  course,  and  pours  out 
her  streams,  and  renews  her  forests,  with  undecaying  activity, 
regardless  of  the  fate  of  her  proud  and  perishable  sovereign. 

Jeffrey. 

V. 
148.     MORNING    HYMN    TO    MOUNT    BLANC. 

HAST  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course  ? — so  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  l^ald,  awful  head,  O  sovereign  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Aveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly  ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark, — substantial  black, — 
An  ebon  mass  ;  methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

2.  O  dread  and  silent  mount !     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

I  worshiped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet  like  some  sweet,  beguiling  melody. 

So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thoughts 

Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy, — 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven. 

3.  Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest — not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy.     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 


462  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs  all  join  my  hymn. 
Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale ! 
Oh !  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink : 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself,  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald !  wake,  oh  wake !  and  utter  praise. 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

4   And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks. 

Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever  ? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded, — and  the  silence  came, — 

"Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest?" 

5.  Ye  ice-falls !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain, — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents !  silent  cataracts ! — 

Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?    Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? — 
"  God  !"  let  the  torents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer  ;  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  "God!" 

6.  "  God  !"  sing,  yo  meadow-streams,  with  gladsome  voice, 
Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they,  too,  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 

And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  "  God  !" 
Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain-storm  1 


ELEMENTS    OF    THE    SWISS    LANDSCAPE.  403 

Te  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements! 

Utter  forth  "  God!"  and  fill  the  hills  with  p>raise. 

7.  Once  more,  hoar  mount !  with  thy  sky-pointing  peak, 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene, 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast, — 
Thou,  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain !  thou, 
That,  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  baso 
Slow-traveling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  scemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — rise,  oh  ever  rise, 
Rise,  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God  !      Coleridge. 

VI. 

149.     ELE^LENTS    OF    THE    SWISS    LANDSCAPE. 

PASSING  out  through  a  forest  of  larches,  whose  dark  verdure 
is  peculiarly  appropriate  to  it,  and  going  up  toward  the 
baths1  of  Lcuk,2  the  interest  of  the  landscape  does  not  at  all 
diminish.  What  a  concentration  and  congregation  of  all  ele- 
ments of  sublimity  and  beauty  are  before  you !  what  surprising 
contrasts  of  light  and  shade,  of  form  and  color,  of  softness  and 
ruggedness !  Here  are  vast  heights  above  you,  and  vast  depths 
below,  villages  hanging  to  the  mountain  sides,  green  pasturages 
and  winding  paths,  lovely  meadow  slopes  enameled  with  flowers 
deep  immeasurable  ravines',  torrents  thundering  down  them 
colossal,  overhanging,  castellated 3  reefs  of  granite  ;  snowy 
peaks  with  the  setting  sun  upon  them. 

2.  You  command  a  view  far  down  over  the  valley  of   the 

1  Baths,  (bafhz).  and  about  5000  feet  above  the  sea. 

3  Leuk,  (loik),  a  villago  and  ecle-         3  CaVtellaHed, inclosed; adorned 

brated  bathing-place  of  Switzerland,  with  turrets  and  battlement*,  like  a 

in  the  canton  of  Valais,  on  the  Rhone,  castle. 


464  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

Bhone,  with  its  villages  and  castles,  and  its  mixture  of  rich 
farms  and  vast  beds  and  heaps  of  mountain  fragments,  deposited 
by  furious  torrents.  What  affects  the  mind  very  powerfully  on 
first  entering  upon  these  scenes,  is  the  deep  dark  blue,  so  in- 
tensely deep  and  overshadowing,  of  the  gorge  at  its  upper  end, 
and  at  the  magnificent  proud  sweep  of  the  granite  barrier,  which 
there  shuts  it  in,  apparently  without  a  passage.  The  mountains 
rise  like  vast  supernatural  intelligences  taking  a  material  shape$ 
and  drawing  around  themselves  a  drapery  of  awful  grandeur  ; 
there  is  a  fore/iead  of  power  and  majesty,  and  the  likeness  of  a 
kingly  crown  above  it. 

3.  Amidst  all  the  grandeur  of  this  scenery,  I  remember  to 
have  been  in  no  place  more  delighted  with  the  profuse  richness, 
delicacy,  and  beauty  of  the  Al'pine  flowers.  The  grass  of  the 
meadow  slopes,  in  the  gorge  of  the  Dala,  had  a  depth  and  power 
of  verdure,  a  clear,  delicious  greenness,  that  in  its  effect  upon 
the  mind  was  like  that  of  the  atmosphere  in  the  brightest  au- 
tumnal morning  of  the  year  ;  or  rather,  perhaps,  like  the  colors 
of  the  sky  at  sunset.  There  is  no  such  grass-color  in  the  world 
as  that  of  these  mountain  meadows.  It  is  just  the  same  at  the 
verge  of  the  ice  oceans  of  Mount  Blanc.  It  makes  you  think  of 
one  of  the  points  chosen  by  the  Sacred  Poet  to  illustrate  the 
divine  benevolence  (and  I  had  almost  said,  no  man  can  truly 
understand  why  it  was  chosen,  who  has  not  traveled  in  Switzer- 
land), "  Who  maketh  the  grass  to  grow  upon  the  mountains." 

4.  And  then  the  flowers,  so  modest,  so  lovely,  yet  of  such 
deep  ex'quisite  hue,  enameled  in  the  grass,  sparkling  amidst  it, 
"  a  starry  multitude,"  underneath  such  awful  brooding  mountain 
forms  and  icy  precipices — how  beautiful !  All  that  the  poets 
have  ever  said  or  sung  of  daisies,  violets,  snow-drops,  king-cups, 
primroses,  and  all  modest  flowers,  is  here  outdone  by  the  mute 
poetry  of  the  denizens  of  these  wild  pastures.  Such  a  meadow 
slope  as  this,  watered  with  pure  rills  from  the  glaciers,  would 
have  set  the  mind  of  Edwards '  at  work  in  contemplation  on  the 

Jonathan  Edwards,  one  of  tlie  his  thirteenth  year;  graduated  with 

first  metaphysicians  of  his  age,  au-  the  highest  honors ;  and  continued 

thor  of  an  "  Essay  on  the  Freedom  his  residence  in  the  institution  for 

of   the  Will,"  was    horn   in    East  two  years,  for  the  study  of  theol- 

Windsor,  Connecticut,  October  5th,  ogy.     He  first  preached  to  a  congre- 

1703.     He  entered  Yale  College  in  gation  in   New  York,  in  his  nine- 


ELEMENTS    OF    THE    SWISS    LANDSCAPE.  4G5 

beauty  of  holiness.  He  lias  connected  these  meek  and  lowly 
flowers  with  an  imago,  which  none  (nun)  of  the  poets  of  this 
world  have  ever  thought  of. 

5.  To  him  tho  divine  beauty  of  holiness  "  made  the  soul  like 
a  field  or  garden  of  God,  with  all  manner  of  pleasant  flowers  ; 
all  pleasant,  delightful,  and  undisturbed  ;  enjoying  a  sweet  calm, 
and  tho  gentle,  vivifying  beams  of  the  sun.  The  soul  of  a  true 
Christian  appears  like  such  a  little  white  ilowcr  as  we  see  in  tho 
spring  of  tho  year  ;  low  and  humble  on  tho  ground  ;  opening 
its  bosom  to  receive  tho  pleasant  beams  of  the  sun's  glory  ;  re- 
joicing, as  it  were,  in  a  calm  rapture  ;  diffusing  around  a  sweet 
fragrancy  ;  standing  peacefully  and  lovingly  in  tho  midst  of 
other  flowers  round  about ;  all  in  like  manner  opening  their 
bosoms  to  drink  in  the  light  of  the  sun." 

G.  Very  likely  such  a  passage  as  this,  coming  from  the  soul 
of  the  great  theologian  (for  this  is  the  poetry  of  the  soul,  and 
not  of  the  artificial  sentiment,  nor  of  the  mere  worship  of  na- 
ture), will  seem  to  many  persons  like  violets  in  the  bosom  of  a 
glac'ier.  But  no  poet  ever  described  the  meek,  modest  flowers 
so  beautifully,  rejoicing  in  a  calm  rapture.  Jonathan  Edwards 
himself,  with  his  grand  views  of  sacred  theology  and  history,  his 
living  piety,  and  his  great  experience  in  the  deep  things  of  God, 
was  like  a  mountain  glacier,  in  one  respect,  as  the  "  par'ent  of 
perpetual  streams,"  that  arc  then  the  deepest,  when  all  the  foun- 
tains of  tho  world  arc  the  driest ;  like,  also,  in  another  respect, 
that  in  climbing  his  theology  you  get  very  near  to  heaven,  and 
are  in  a  very  pure  and  bracing  atmosphere  ;  like,  again,  in  this, 
that  it  requires  much  spiritual  labor  and  discipline  to  surmount 
his  heights,  and  some  care  not  to  fall  into  the  crev&ssfes;  and 
like,  once  more,  in  this,  that  when  you  get  to  the  top,  you  have 
a  vast,1  wide,  glorious  view  of  God's  great  plan,  and  see  things 
in  their  chains  and  connections,  which  before  you  only  saw 
separate  and  piecemeal.  Ciieever. 

George  B.  Ciieeveu  was  horn  at  ITallowell,  "Maine,  on  the  17th  of  April,  1S07. 
lie  was  graduated  at  Bowdoin  College,  September,  1S25,  studied  theology  at 
Andover,  was  licensed  to  preach  in  1830,  and  was  first  settled  as  pastor  over 
Howard  Street  church  of  Salem,  Massachusetts.     lie  went  to  Europe  in  18GG, 

teenth  year.  He  preached  in  North-  stalled  president  of  Princeton  College 
ampton  twenty-three  years:  was  in  January,  1758;  and  died  on  the 
missionary  to  the  Indians  near  Stock-     2'2d  of  March  of  the  same  vear. 

*  » 

bridge,  Mass.,  for  six  years ;  was  in-         '  Vast,  (vast),  see  Note  3,  p.  22. 

2<P 


±Q>G  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

■where  he  spent  two  years  and  six  months.  In  1839  he  became  pastor  of  tha 
Allen  Street  church,  New  York,  and  in  1846  of  the  Church  of  the  Puritans,  a 
position  which  he  still  retains.  In  1844  he  again  visited  Europe  for  a  year.  Dr. 
Chcevcr  is  celebrated  as  a  logician.  He  has  a  keen  analytical  mind,  and  com- 
bining fancy  with  logic,  succeeds  equally  well  in  allegory  and  in  argumentation 
His  numerous  and  valuable  works  have  gained  him  an  enviable  position  in  Amer- 
ican literature.  He  has  written  extensively  for  our  ablest  reviews  and  periodicals, 
lie  was  a  valuable  correspondent  of  the  "  New  York  Observer,"  when  in  Europe, 
find  editor  of  the  "  New  York  Evangelist"  during  1845  and  1846.  He  is  now  a 
contributor  of  "The  Independent."  His  "Lectures  on  Pilgrim's  Progress," 
published  in  1843,  and  "  Voices  of  Nature,"  1852,  are  among  the  ablest  of  his 
productions,  and  indicate  most  truly  his  mode  and  range  of  thought.  "  Wander- 
ings of  a  Pilgrim  in  the  Shadow  of  Mont  Blanc  and  the  Yungfrau  Alp,"  from 
which  the  above  extract  is  taken,  published  in  1846,  on  his  return  from  his  second 
i  isit  to  Europe,  met  with  a  very  favorable  reception.  As  a  writer  he  is  always 
dear  and  unimpassioned ;  he  sees  and  hears  and  describes,  never  falling,  through 
excess  of  feeling,  into  confusion,  or  figure,  or  redundancy  of  expression.  The 
reader  is  strengthened  by  his  power,  calmed  by  his  tranquillity,  and  incited  to 
eelf-denying  and  lofty  views,  by  his  earnest  and  vigorous  presentation  of  truth. 

vn. 

150.     ALPINE    SCENERY. 

ABOVE  me  are  the  Alps — most  glorious  Alps — 
The  palaces  of  Nature,  whose  vast  walls 
Have  pinnacled  in  clouds  their  snowy  scalps, 
And  throned  Eternity  in  icy  halls 
Of  cold  sublimity,  where  forms  and  falls 
The  avalanche — the  thunderbolt  of  snow ! 
All  that  expands  the  spirit,  yet  appalls, 
Gather  around  these  summits,  as  to  show 
How  Earth  may  pierce  to  Heaven,  yet  leave  vain  man  below. 

2.  Lake  Leman '  woos  me  with  its  crystal  face, — 

The  mirror,  where  the  stars  and  mountains  view 
The  stillness  of  their  aspect  in  each  trace 

Its  clear  depth  yields  of  their  far  height  and  hue. 

There  is  too  much  of  man  here,  to  look  through, 
With  a  fit  mind,  the  might  which  I  behold  ; 

But  soon  in  me  shall  loneliness  renew 

1  L>e'  man  or  Geneva,  a  crescent-  eighty-four  feet.     Its  waters,  which 

shaped  lake    of    Europe,    between  are  never  entirely  frozen  over,  havo 

Switzerland  r.ndtheSardinian  States,  a  peculiar  deep-blue  color,  are  very 

Length,   forty-five  miles  ;    breadth,  transparent,  and  contain  a  great  va- 

from  one  to  nine  and  a  half  miles  ;  riety  of  fish.     Steam  navigation  was 

and  greatest  depth,  nine  hundred  and  introduced  in  1823. 


ALPINE    SCENERY.  467 

Thoughts  hid,  but  not  less  cherished  than  of  old, 
Ere  mingling  with  the  herd  that  penned  me  in  their  fold. 

3.  Clear,  placid  Leman !  thy  contrasted  lake 

With  the  wide  world  I've  dwelt  in  is  a  thing 
"Which  wrarns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsako 

Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 

This  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 
To  waft  me  from  distraction  ;  once  I  loved 

Torn  ocean's  roar  ;  but  thy  soft  murmuring 
Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved, 

4.  It  is  the  hush  of  night ;  and  all  between 

Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 
Mellowed  and  mingling,  3-et  distinctly  seen, 

Save  darkened  Jura,1  whose  capped  heights  appear 

Precipitously  steep  ;  and  drawing  near, 
There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  wTith  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 
Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more. 

5.  He  is  an  evening  reveler,  who  makes 

His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 

Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 

There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; — 
But  that  is  fancy  ;  for  the  starlight  dews 

All  silently  their  tears  of  love  distill, 
Weeping  themselves  away  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

G.  Ye  stars !  which  arc  the  poetry  of  heaven, 

If,  in  your  bright  leaves,  we  would  read  the  fato 
Of  men  and  empires, — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 
That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  6'erleap  their  mortal  state, 

fc.  — — ■     ■   1        —   —  —  .  —  -—         -  -    ■■    -  1  1 , 

3  Jura,  (jo'  ra),  a  chain  of  mount-  breadth  of  thirty  miles.     One  of  the 

ains  which  separates  France   from  culminating  points,  and  the  highest, 

Switzerland,  extending  for  one  hun-  is  Mount  Molesson  six  thousand  five 

dred  and  eighty  miles  in  the  form  of  hundred  and  eighty-eight  feet  above 

a  curve,  from  S.  to  N.  E.,  with  a  mean  the  level  of  tho  sea. 


468  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you  ;  for  ye  are 

A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 
In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  star. 

7.  All  heaven  and  earth  are  still, — though  not  in  sleep, 

But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep  : — 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still !     From  the  high  host 

Of  stars  to  the  lulled  lake,  and  mountain  coast, 
All  is  concentered  in  a  life  intense, 

"Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 
But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator  and  Defense. 

8.  The  sky  is  changed !  and  such  a  change !     O  Night, 

And  Storm,  and  Darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  the  light 

Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman !     Far  along, 

From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 
Leaps  the  live  thunder ! — not  from  one  lone  cloud, 

But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue  ; 
And  Jura  answers,  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

9.  And  this  is  in  the  night. — Most  glorious  night ! 

Tliou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber !  let  me  be 
,A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight, — 
A  portion  of  the  tempest  and  of  thee ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines, — a  phosphoric  sea — 
And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth ! 

And  now  again  'tis  black — and  now,  the  glee 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain  mirth, 

As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

10.  Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings !  ye, 
With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt  and  feeling,  well  may  be 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful : — the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 
Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless, — if  I  rest. 

But  where,  of  ye,  O  tempests !  is  the  goal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE.  469 

11.  The  morn  is  up  again,  the  dewy  morn, 

With  breath  all  incense,  and  with  cheek  all  bloom, 
Laughing  the  clouds  away  with  playful  scorn, 
And  living  as  if  earth  contained  no  tomb, — 
And  glowing  into  day  :  wo  may  resume 
The  march  of  our  existence  ;  and  thus  I, 

Still  on  thy  shores,  fair  Leman !  may  find  room 
And  food  for  meditation,  nor  pass  by 
Much,  that  may  give  us  pause,  if  pondered  fittingly. 

Lori>  BrcioN. 


SECTION    XX  NTIII. 

I. 

151.     SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE. 

n^  I.    EARLY   DAWN.— Shelley. 

THE  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering  still 
Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn, 
Beyond  the  purple  mountains  :  through  a  chasm 
Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 
Reflects  it.     Now  it  wanes  :  it  gleams  again 
As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning  threads 
Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air  : 
'Tis  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloud-lilje  snow 
The  roseate  sunlight  quivers  :  hear  I  not 
The  iEolian  '  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 
Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 

II.    DAYBREAK.— Longfellow. 
A  wind  came  up  out  of  the  sea, 
And  said,  "  O  mists,  make  room  for  me !" 
It  hailed  the  ships,  and  cried,  "  Sail  on, 
Ye  mariners  !  the  night  is  gone  !" 
And  hurried  landward  far  away, 
Crying,  "Awake!  it  is  the  day!" 
It  said  unto  the  forest,  "  Shout ! 
Hang  all  your  leafy  banners  out !" 


1  2E  o'  li  an,  pertaining  to  JEolus,  the  £od  of  the  winds;  hence,  music 
produced  by  wind  may  be  termed  JEolian  music. 


470  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

It  touched  the  wood-bird's  folded  wing, 
And  said,  "O  bird,  awake  and  sing!" 
And  o'er  the  farms,  "  O  chanticleer, 
Your  clarion  blow!  the  day  is  near!" 
It  whispered  to  the  fields  of  corn, 
"  Bow  down,  and  hail  the  coming  morn  1" 
It  shouted  through  the  belfry-tower, 
"  Awake,  0  bell !  proclaim  the  hour  I" 
It  crossed  the  church-yard  with  a  sigh, 
And  said,  "  Not  yet  !  in  quiet  lie  !" 

III.    DAYBREAK.— Shelley. 
Bay  had  awakened  all  things  that  be, 
The  lark,  and  the  thrush,  and  the  swallow  free, 
And  the  milkmaid's  song,  and  the  mower's  scythe, 
And  the  matin  bell,  and  the  mountain  bee  : 

Fireflies  were  quenched  on  the  dewy  corn, 
Glow-worms  went  out,  on  the  river's  brim, 
Like  lamps  which  a  student  forgets  to  trim  : 

The  beetle  forgot  to  wind  his  horn, 
The  crickets  were  still  in  the  meadow  and  hill : 
Like  a  flock  of  rooks  at  a  farmer's  gun, 
Night's  dreams  and  terrors,  every  one, 
Fled  from  the  brains  which  are  their  prey, 
From  the  lamp's  death  to  the  morning  ray. 

IV.    SUNRISE    IN    SOUTH   AMERICA.— Bowles.* 
'Tis  dawn  : — the  distant  Andes'  rocky  spires, 
One  after  one,  have  caught  the  oriental  fires. 
Where  the  dun  condor  shoots  his  upward  flight, 
His  wings  are  touched  with  momentary  light. 


William  Lisle  Bowles  was  born  other  poems  in  1789.     His  sonnets 

at  Northamptonshire,  England,  on  have,  probably, never  been  surpassed. 

September  25th,  1762.    He  received  "  The    Missionary  of    the   Andes," 

his  early  education  at  Winchester,  published   in   1815,  is,  perhaps,   as 

where  he  was  at  the  head  of  the  good  as  any  of  his  numerous  and 

school  during  his  last  year,  and,  in  excellent   poems.     He  entered    the 

consequence,  was  elected  a  scholar  ministry,  and  in  1804,  became  Vicar 

of  Trinity  College,  Oxford,  in  1781.  of  Bremhill,  which  was  his  residence 

In  1783  he  gained  the  chancellor's  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century, 

prize  for  Latin  verse ;  and  published  He  died  at  Salisbury,  his  last   resi- 

sevcral  of  his  beautiful  sonnets  and  dence,  April  7th,  1850. 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE.  471 

Meantime,  beneath  the  mountains'  glittering  heads, 
A  boundless  ocean  of  gray  vapor  spreads, 
That  o'er  the  champaign,  stretching  far  below, 
Moves  on,  in  clustered  masses,  rising  slow, 
Till  all  the  living  landscape  is  displayed 
In  various  pomp  of  color,  light,  and  shade, — 
Hills,  forests,  rivers,  lakes,  and  level  plain, 
Lessening  in  sunshine  to  the  southern  main. 
The  lama's  fleece  fumes  with  ascending  dew  ; 
The  gem-like  humming-birds  their  toils  renew  ; 
And  see,  where  yonder  stalks,  in  crimson  pride, 
The  tall  flamingo,  by  the  river's  side, — 
Stalks,  in  his  richest  plumage  bright  arrayed, 
With  snowy  neck  superb,  and  legs  of  lengthening  shade. 

V.    DAWN.— Willis. 
Throw  up  the  window  1     'Tis  a  morn  for  lifo 
In  its  most  subtle  luxury.     The  air 
Is  like  a  breathing  from  a  rarer  world  ; 
And  the  south  wind  is  like  a  gentle  friend, 
Parting  the  hair  so  softly  on  my  brow. 
It  has  come  over  gardens,  and  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed  ;  for  as  it  parts, 
With  its  invisible  fingers,  my  loose  hair, 
I  know  it  has  been  trifling  with  the  rose, 
And  stooping  to  the  violet.     There  is  joy 
For  all  God's  creatures  in  it.     The  wet  leaves 
Are  stirring  at  its  touch  ;  and  birds  are  singing, 
As  if  to  breathe  were  music  ;  and  the  grass 
Sends  up  its  modest  odor  with  the  dew, 
Like  the  small  tribute  of  humility. 
VI.    MORNING.— Milton. 

Sweet  is  the  breath  of  Morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
"With  charm  of  earliest  birds  ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  ho  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower, 
Glistering  with  dew  ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild  :  then  silent  Night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon, 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train. 


£72  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

VII.    MORNING    ON    THE    RHINE.— Bowles. 

'Twas  morn,  and  beautiful  the  mountain's  brow — 
Hung  with  the  clusters  of  the  bending  vino — 
Shone  in  the  early  light,  when  on  the  Khine 

"We  sailed,  and  heard  the  waters  round  the  prow 

In  murmurs  parting  :  varying  as  we  go, 
Bocks  after  rocks  come  forward  and  retire, 
As  some  gray  convent-wall  or  sun-lit.  sjrire 

Starts  up,  along  the  banks,  unfolding  slow. 

Here  castles,  like  the  prisons  of  despair, 

Frown  as  we  pass! — There,  on  the  vineyard's  side, 
The  bursting  sunshine  pours  its  streaming  tide  ; 
"While  Gkief,  forgetful  amid  scenes  so  fair, 

Counts  not  the  hours  of  a  long  summer's  day, 

Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away. 


VIII.    MORNING   SOUNDS.— Beattie.i 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ?— 
The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain's  side  ; 

The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd,  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley  ;  echoing  far  and  wide, 

The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above  ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide  ; 

The  hum  of  bees  ;  the  linnet's  lay  of  love  ; 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  crove. 


&j 


The  cottage  cur3  at  early  pilgrim  bark  ; 
Crowned  with  her  pail,  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings ; 

The  whistling  plowman  stalks  afield  ;  and  hark! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings  ; 
Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs  ; 

Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour  ; 
The  patridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings  ; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower  ; 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower. 

1  James  Beattie,  the  well-known  and  of  the  "  Essay  on  Truth,"  was 
Scotch  poet  and  moralist,  author  of  born  December  5th,  17G5,  and  died 
the  celebrated  poem,  the  "  Minstrel,"     August  18th,  1803. 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE.  473 

IX.    EARLY   RISING.— IIurdis.i 
Rise  wim  the  lark,  and  with  the  lark  to  bed. 
The  breath  of  night's  destructive  to  the  hue 
Of  every  flower  that  blows.     Go  to  the  field, 
And  ask  the  humble  daisy  why  it  sleeps, 
Soon  as  the  sun  departs.     AVhy  close  the  eyes 
Of  blossoms  infinite,  ere  the  still  moon 
Her  oriental  vail  puts  off?     Think  why, 
Nor  let  the  sweetest  blossom  be  exposed, 
That  nature  boasts,  to  night's  unkindly  damp. 
"Well  may  it  droop,  and  all  its  freshness  lose, 
Compelled  to  taste  the  rank  and  poisonous  steam 
Of  midnight  theater,  and  morning  ball. 
Give  to  repose  the  solemn  hour  she  claims  ; 
And  from  the  fore/iead  of  the  morning  steal 
The  sweet  occasion. 

Oh !  there  is  a  charm 
That  morning  has,  that  gives  the  brow  of  age 
A  smack  of  youth,  and  makes  the  lip  of  youth 
Breathe  per'fumes  exquisite.     Expect  it  not, 
Ye  who  till  noon  upon  a  down-bed  lie, 
Indulging  feverish  sleep  ;  or  wakeful,  dream 
Of  happiness  no  mortal  heart  has  felt, 
But  in  the  regions  of  romance'.     Ye  fair, 
Like  you  it  must  be  wooed,  or  never  won  ; 
And,  being  lost,  it  is  in  vain  ye  ask 
For  milk  of  roses  and  Olympian  dew. 
Cosmetic  art  no  tincture  can  afford 
The  faded  features  to  restore  :  no  chain, 
Be  it  of  gold,  and  strong  as  adamant, 
Can  fetter  beauty  to  the  fair  one's  will. 

n. 

152.     SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE. 

I.    INVOCATION    TO    NIGHT.— J.  F.  Rollings. 

COME,  with  thy  sweeping  cloud  and  starry  vest 
Mother  of  counsel,  and  the  joy  which  lies 
In  feelings  deep,  and  inward  sympathies, 

5  James  Hurdis,  an  English  poet,  born  in  1763,  and  died  in  1801. 


474  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 


Soothing,  like  founts  of  health,  the  wearied  breast. 
Lo !  o'er  the  distant  hills  the  day-star's  crest 

Sinks  redly  burning  ;  and  the  winds  arise, 

Moving  with  shadowy  gusts  and  feeble  sighs 
Amid  the  reeds  which  veil  the  bittern's  nest ! 
Day  hath  its  melody  and  light — the  sense 

Of  mirth  which  sports  round  fancy's  fairy  mine  ; 
But  the  full  power,  which  loftier  aids  dispense, 

To  speed  the  soul  where  scenes  unearthly  shine — 
Silence,  and  peace,  and  stern  magnificence, 

And  awe,  and  throned  solemnity — are  thine ! 

II.    A   TWILIGHT    PICTURE.— Whittieb. 
The  twilight  deepened  round  us.     Still  and  black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at  our  back : 
And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering  day 
On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 

The  brown  old  farm-house  like  a  bird's  nest  hung. 
With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was  stirred  : 
The  bleat  of  sheep  along  the  hill  we  heard, 
The  bucket  plashing  in  the  cool,  sweet  well, 
The  pasture-bars  that  clattered  as  they  fell ; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed  ;  the  gate 
Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the  merry  weight 

Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while  they  swung. 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to  hear  ; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in  tinklings  clear, 

The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-beU  rung. 

III.    EVENING.— Cbolt. 
"When  eve  is  purpling  cliff  and  cave, 

Thoughts  of  the  heart,  how  soft  ye  flow  I 
Not  softer  on  the  western  wave 

The  golden  lines  of  sunset  glow. 
Then  all  by  chance  or  fate  removed, 

Like  spirits  crowd  upon  the  eye, — 
The  few  we  liked,  the  one  we  loved, — 

And  the  whole  heart  is  memory  : 
And  life  is  like  a  fading  flower, 

Its  beauty  dying  as  we  gaze  ; 
Yet  as  the  shadows  round  us  lower, 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE.  475 

Heaven  p6ur3  above  a  brighter  blaze. 
When  morning  sheds  its  gorgeous  dye, 

-  Our  hope,  our  heart,  to  earth  is  given  ; 
But  dark  and  lonely  is  the  eye 

That  turns  not,  at  its  eve,  to  heaven. 

IV.    NIGHT.— COLEBIDQE.1 

TnE  crackling  embers  on  the  hearth  are  dead  ; 

The  in-door  note  of  in'dustry  is  still ; 

The  latch  is  fast ;  upon  the  window-sill 
The  small  birds  wait  not  for  their  daily  bread : 
The  voiceless  flowers — how  quietly  they  shed 

Their  nightly  odors  !  and  the  household  rill 

Murmurs  continuous  dulcet  sounds,  that  fill 
The  vacant  expectation,  and  the  dread 
Of  listening  night.     And  haply  now  she  sleeps  ; 

For  all  the  garrulous  noises  of  the  air 
Are  hushed  in  peace  :  the  soft  dew  silent  weeps, 

Like  hopeless  lovers,  for  a  maid  so  fair  .• — 
Oh !  that  I  were  the  happy  drearn  that  creeps 

To  her  soft  heart,  to  find  my  image  there. 

V.    NIGHT   AT    CORINTH.'— Byrox. 
'Tis  midnight :  on  the  mountains  brown 
The  cold  round  moon  shines  deeply  down  : 
Blue  roll  the  waters  :  blue  the  sky 
Spreads  like  an  ocean  hung  on  high, 
Bespangled  with  those  isles  of  light, 
So  widely,  spiritually  bright ; — 
"Who  ever  gazed  upon  them  shining, 
And  turned  to  earth  without  repining, 
Nor  wished  for  wings  to  flee  away, 
And  mix  with  their  eternal  ray  ? 
The  waves  on  either  shore  lay  there 

1  Hartley  Coleridge,  eldest  son  of  brilliancy    of    imagery,   beauty    of 

Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  was  born  thought,   pure    English   style,   and 

at  Clevcdown,  a  small  village  near  pleasing  and  instructive  suggestions. 

Bristol,    England,   September  19th,  Ho  died  on  the  Gth  of  January,  1849. 

1796.     Some  of  his  poems  are  ex-  3  The  night  here  described  is  sup- 

quisitely  beautiful,  and  his  sonnets  posed  to  have  been  in  1715,  when 

are  surpassed  by  few  in  the  language.  Corinth,  then   in   possession  of  the 

His  prose  works  are  remarkable  for  Venetians,  was  besieged  by  theTurks. 


4:76  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 

Calm,  clear,  and  azure  as  the  air  ; 
And  scarce  their  foam  the  pebbles  shook, 
But  murmured  meekly  as  the  brook. 
The  winds  were  pillowed  on  the  waves ; 
The  banners  drooped  along  their  staves, 
And,  as  they  fell  around  them  furling, 
Above  them  shone  the  crescent  curling  : 
And  that  deep  silence  was  unbroke, 
Save  where  the  watch  his  signal  spoke, 
Save  where  the  steed  neighed  6ft  and  shrill, 
And  echo  answered  from  the  hill ; 
And  the  wild  hum  of  that  wild  host 
Rustled  like  leaves  from  coast  to  coast, 
As  rose  the  Muezzin's x  voice  in  air 
In  midnight  call  to  wonted a  prayer. 

VI.    A   SUMMER'S    NIGHT.— Bailey.' 

The  last  high  upward  slant  of  sun  on  the  trees, 

Like  a  dead  soldier's  sword  upon  his  pall, 

Seems  to  console  earth  for  the  glory  gone. 

Oh !  I  could  weep  to  see  the  day  die  thus. 

The  death-bed  of  a  day,  how  beautiful ! 

Linger,  ye  clouds,  one  moment  longer  there  ; 

Fan  it  to  slumber  with  your  golden  wings! 

Like  pious  prayers,  ye  seem  to  soothe  its  end. 

It  will  wake  no  more  till  the  all-revealing  day  ; 

When,  like  a  drop  of  water,  greatened  bright 

Into  a  shadow,  it  shall  show  itself, 

With  all  its  little  tyrannous  things  and  deeds, 

Unhomed  and  clear.     The  day  hath  gone  to  God, — 

Straight — like  an  infant's  spirit,  or  a  mocked 

And  mourning  messenger  of  grace  to  man. 

Would  it  had  taken  me  too  on  its  wings ! 

My  end  is  nigh.     Would  I  might  die  outright ! 

1  Mu  ez'  zin,  one  appointed  by  the  22d,  1816.     He  was  educated  in  the 

Turks,  who  use  no  bells  for  the  pur-  schools  of  his  native  town  and  at 

pose, to  summon  the  religious  to  their  the  university  of  Glasgow.     His  first 

devotions,  to  the  extent  of  his  voice,  and  most  remarkable  poem,  "Festus," 

3  Wonted,  (wunf  ed).  appeared    in    1839.     His    principal 

■  Philip  James  Bailey,  an  English  publications  since  are  the  "Angel 

poet,  was  born  in  Nottingham,  April  World  "  and  "  Mystic." 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN   VERSE.  477 

So  o'er  tho  sunset  clouds  of  red  mortality 
The  emerald  hues  of  deathlessness  diffuse 
Their  glory,  heightening  to  the  starry  blue 
Of  all  embosoming  eternity. 

VII.     NIGHT    AND    DEATH.— Wiiite." 
Mysterious  night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 

Thee,  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 

Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 
This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 
Yet  'neam  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 

Hesperus,2  with  the  host  of  heaven  came  ; 
And  lo !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 
Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 

Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun  ?  or  who  could  find, 
While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 

That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  madest  us  blind  ? 
Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? — 
If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

VIII.    NIGHT.— Shelley. 
How  beautiful  this  night !     The  balmiest  sigh, 
Which  vernal  zephyrs  breathe  in  evening's  ear, 
Were  discord  to  the  speaking  quietude 
That  wraps  this  moveless  scene.     Heaven's  ebon  vault, 
Studded  with  stars  unutterably  bright, 
Through  which  the  moon's  unclouded  grandeur  rolls, 
Seems  like  a  canopy  which  love  has  spread 
To  curtain  her  sleeping  world.     Y6n  gentle  hills, 
Eobed  in  a  garment  of  untrodden  snow  ; 
Yon  darksome  rocks,  whence  icicles  depend, — 
So  stainless,  that  their  white  and  glittering  spires 
Tinge  not  the  moon's  pure  beam  ;  yon  castled  steep, 
Whose  banner  hangtth  o'er  the  time-worn  tower 
So  idly,  that  rapt  fancy  deemeth  it 
A  metaphor  of  peace  ; — all  form  a  scene 


1  Joseph  Blanco  White,  a  Spanish,  the  magazines  and  periodical  press, 

gentleman   of    Irish    descent,    "who  lie  was  born  in  1775, and  died  in  1841. 

came  to  England  in  lS10,and  devoted  5Hes'  perils,    the   evening   star, 

himself  to  literature,  chiefly  through  especially  Venus. 


478  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Where  musing  solitude  might  love  to  lift 
Her  soul  above  this  sphere  of  earthliness  ; 
Where  silence,  undisturbed,  might  watch  alone, 
So  cold,  so  bright,  so  still. 

IX.    THE   MOON.— Charlotte  Smith.* 

Queen  of  the  silver  bow !  by  thy  pale  beam, 

Alone  and  pensive,  I  delight  to  stray, 
And  watch  thy  shadow  trembling  in  the  stream, 

Or  mark  the  floating  clouds  that  cross  thy  way  : 
And  while  I  gaze,  thy  mild  and  placid  light 

Sheds  a  soft  calm  upon  my  troubled  breast ; 
And  6ft  I  think,  fair  planet  of  the  night, 

That  in  thy  orb  the  wretched  may  have  rest ; 
The  sufferers  of  the  earth  perhaps  may  go, 

Released  by  death,  to  thy  benignant  sphere, 
And  the  sad  children  of  despair  and  woe 

Forget,  in  thee,  their  cup  of  sorrow  here. 
Oh !  that  I  soon  may  reach  thy  world  serene 
Poor  wearied  pilgrim  in  this  toiling  scene ! 

X.    THE    STARS.— Darwin.» 

Roll  on,  ye  stars  ;  exult  in  youthful  prime  ; 
Mark  with  bright  curves  the  printless  steps  of  Time  ; 
Near  and  more  near  your  beamy  cars  approach, 
And  lessening  orbs  on  lessening  orbs  encroach. 
Flowers  of  the  sky,  ye,  too,  to  age  must  yield, 
Frail  as  your  silken  sisters  of  the  field. 

1  Mrs.    Charlotte     Smith    (Miss  for  her  poetry,  which  abounds  with 

Turner)  was  born   in  King  Street,  touches  of   tenderness,   grace,   and 

St.    James    Square,    London,    May  beauty.     She  died  on   the   28th  of 

4th,   1749.     Her    first   collection  of  October,  180G. 

sonnets  and  other  poems  was  very  "  Erasmus  Darwin,  an    English 

popular,   passing    through    no  less  physician,  poet,  and  botanist,  was 

than    eleven    editions.       Her    first  born   at   Elton,  in  1731,  and  after 

novel,  "  Emmeline,"  which  was  ex-  taking    his    degree   at  Edinburgh, 

ceedingly  popular,  appeared  in  1788.  pursued  his  professional  career  at 

Her  novels  and  other  prose  works,  Litchfield,  from  which  place  he  re. 

in   all   about    forty  volumes,   were  moved  to  Derby,  where  he  died  in 

much  admired  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  1802.     Dr.  Darwin  was  an  original 

and  other  contemporaries  ;   but  she  thinker,  a  great  adept  in  analogies, 

is  now  most  known  and  most  valued  and  nn  able  versifier. 


LOCHINVAR'S    RIDE.  479 

Star  after  star  from  heaven's  high  arch  shall  rush, 
Suns  sink  on  suns,  and  systems  systems  crush, 
Headlong,  extinct,  to  one  dark  center  fall, 
And  death,  and  night,  and  chaos  mingle  all  ; 
Till  o'er  the  wreck,  emerging  from  the  storm, 
Immortal  Nature  lifts  her  changeful  form, 
Mounts  from  her  funeral  pyre,  on  wings  of  flame, 
And  soars  and  shines,  another  and  the  same. 


SECTION    XXIX. 

I. 

153.    LOCHINVAR'S    RIDE. 

OH,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West, — 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best ! 
And  save  his  good  broadsirord  he  weapons  had  none, — 
He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

2.  He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none  ; 
But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  ; 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

3.  So  boldly  he  entered  the  Xetherby  hall, 

'Mong  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all  : 
Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 
(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word), 
"  O,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?" 

4.  "I  long  wooed  your  daughter, — my  suit  you  denied  ; — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  ; 
And  now  am  I  come  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 

To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  vourig  Lochinvar.'1 


4:80  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5.  The  bride  kissed  the  goblet ;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup, 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 

He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar, — 
"Now  tread  we  a  measure  V  said  young  Lochinvar. 

6.  So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace  ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume  ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "'Twere  better,  by  far, 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar." 

7.  One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 

When  they  reached  the  hall-door,  and  the  charger  stood  near ; 

So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 

"  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scar  ; 

They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

8.  There  was  mounting  'mong  Grsemes  of  the  Netherby  clan  ; 
Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran  : 
There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 

Scott. 

II. 

154.     THE    KING    OF    DENMARK'S    RIDE. 

~VYT"ORD  was  brought  to  the  Danish  king 

V  V  (Hurry !) 

That  the  love  of  his  heart  lay  suffering, 
And  pined  for  the  comfort  his  voice  would  bring  ; 

(O !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying  !) 
Better  he  loves  each  golden  curl 
On  the  brow  of  that  Scandinavian  girl 
Than  his  rich  crown  jewels  of  ruby  and  pearl  ; 

And  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  is  dying  ! 

2.  Thirty  nobles  saddled  with  speed  ; 
(Hurry!) 


THE    KING    OF    DENMARK'S    RIDE  481 

Each  one  mounting  a  gallant  steed 

Which  ho  kept  for  battle  and  days  of  need  ; 

(0  !  ride  as  though  you  were  flying !) 
Spurs  were  struck  in  the  foaming  flank  ; 
"Worn-out  chargers  staggered  and  sank  ; 
Bridles  were  slackened,  and  girths  were  burst ; 
But  ride  as  they  would,  the  king  rode  first, 

For  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying  ! 

3.  His  nobles  are  beaten,  one  by  one  ; 
(Hurry !) 
They  have  fainted,  and  faltered,  and  homeward  gone  ; 
His  little  fair  page  now  follows  alone, 

For  strength  and  for  courage  trying 
The  king  looked  back  at  that  faithful  child  ; 
"Wan  was  the  face  that  answering  smiled  ; 
They  passed  the  drawbridge  with  clattering  din, 
Then  he  dropped  ;  and  only  the  king  rode  in 
Where  his  Rose  of  the  Isles  lay  dying ! 

4  The  king  blew  a  blast  on  his  bugle  horn  ; 
(Silence  !) 
No  answer  came  ;  but  faint  and  forlorn 
An  echo  returned  on  the  cold  gray  morn, 

Like  the  breath  of  a  spirit  sighing. 
The  castle  portal  stood  grimly  wide  ; 
None  welcomed  the  king  from  that  weary  ride  ; 
For  dead,  in  the  light  of  the  dawning  day, 
The  pale  sweet  form  of  the  wclcomer  lay, 
Who  had  yearned  for  his  voice  while  dying ! 

5.  The  panting  steed,  with  a  drooping  crest, 

Stood  weary. 

The  king  returned  from  her  chamber  cf  lest, 

The  thick  sobs  choking  in  his  breast ; 

And,  that  dumb  companion  eyeing, 

The  tears  gushed  forth  which  he  strove  to  check ; 

He  bowed  his  head  on  his  charger's  neck  : 

"  O,  steed — that  every  nerve  didst  strain, 

Dear  steed,  our  ride  hath  been  in  vain 

To  the  halls  where  my  love  lay  dying  l" 

Caroline  No-rton. 


4S2  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

m. 

155.     SHERIDAN'S    RIDE. 

UP  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble  and  rumble  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan — twenty  miles  away. 

2.  And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 
Thundered  along  the  horl'zon's  bar, 
And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 
The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 
Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 
And  Sheridan — twenty  miles  away. 

3.  But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 
A  good,  broad  highwTay  leading  down  ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed,  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass  as  with  eagle  flight — 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need, 

He  stretched  away  with  the  utmost  speed  ; 

Hills  rose  and  fell — but  his  heart  was  gay, 

WTith  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

4.  Still  sprung  from  these  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 
The  dust,  like  the  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Or  the  trail  of  a  comet  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 
Foreboding  to  foemen  the  doom  of  disaster  ; 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 
Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 
Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls  ; 
Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 
AVith  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

6.  Under  his  spurning  feet,  the  road 
Like  an  arrowy  Al'pine  river  flowed, 
And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 
Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind  ; 


THK    HIDE    FROM    GHENT    TO    A IX.  483 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 
Swept  on  with  his  wild  eyes  full  of  fire. 
But,  lo  !  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire — 
He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 
With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

6.  The  first  that  the  General  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops  ; — 
What  was  done — what  to  do — a  glance  told  him  both, 
Then  striking  his  spurs  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzahs, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there  because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray  ; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  his  red  nostril's  play, 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester  down  lo  save  the  day!" 

7.  Hurrah,  hurrah  for  Sheridan  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah  for  horse  and  man  ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, — 

The  American  soldier's  Tenrole  of  Fame, — 

There,  with  the  glorious  General's  name, 

Be  it  said  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright  : 

"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day 

By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight 

From  Winchester — twenty  miles  away!"  T.  B.  Reed. 

IV. 

15G.     THE    RIDE    FROM    GHENT    TO    AIX. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup  (stur'rup),  and  Joris  and  he  : 
I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three  ; 
"Good  speed  !"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 
"  Speed  !"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through  ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

2.  Not  a  word  to  each  other  ;  we  kept  the  great  pace — 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place  ; 


484  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

I  turned  in  rny  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tigLfc, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

3.  'Twas  moonset  at  starting  ;  but  while  we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear  ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see  ; 

At  Diifleld  'twas  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half-chime — > 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "  Yet  there  is  time  ! " 

4.  At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past ; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

5.  And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 

O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance ; 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes,  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upward  in  galloping  on. 

6.  By  Hasselt  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur  ! 
Your  Roos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault's  not  in  her  ; 
We'll  remember  at  Aix"  (aks) — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck,  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

7.  So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky  ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh  ; 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle,  bright  stubble  like  chaff ; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "  Gallop"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight ! 

8.  "  How  they'll  greet  us  !" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone  ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


CHARACTER    OF    HAMLET.  485 

9.  Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff-coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer  ; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or  good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  lioland  galloped  and  stood. 

10.  And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I  sate  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground  ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Roland  of  mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 

"Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from 

Ghent.  Browning. 

Robert  Browning,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  English  poets  of  the  age,  was 
born  in  Camberwell,  a  suburb  of  London,  in  1812,  and  educated  at  the  London 
University.  At  the  age  of  twenty  he  went  to  Italy,  where  he  passed  some  time 
studying  the  mediaeval  history  of  the  country,  and  making  himself  acquainted 
with  the  life,  habits,  and  characteristics  of  its  people.  The  effect  of  his  Italian 
life  is  distinctly  perceivable  in  the  selection  of  subjects  for  his  poems  and  his 
treatment  of  them.  His  first  work,  " Paracelsus,"  a  dramatic  poem  of  great 
power,  appeared  in  is;;5.  Mr.  Browning  was  married  to  Elizabeth  Barrett,  in 
November,  1846.  His  collective  poems,  in  two  volumes,  appeared  in  London 
in  1840,  and  since  then  three  additional  volumes  were  publbhcd,  all  of  which 
have  been  republished  in  this  country.  Though  a  true  poet,  of  original  genius, 
both  dramatic  and  lyrical,  his  poems  are  not  popular  among  the  masses.  Much 
of  his  poetry  is  written  for  poets,  requiring  careful  study,  and  repaying  all  that 
is  given  to  it.  A  few  of  his  dramatic  lyrics,  however,  such  as  "The  Pied  Piper 
of  Hamelin,"  "The  Lost  Leader,"  "Incident  of  the  French  Camp,"  and  "How 
they  brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix,"  are  unrivaled  in  elements  of 
popularity. 


SECTION    XXX. 
I. 

157.     CHARACTER    OF    HAMLET. 

HAMLET  is  a  name  :  his  speeches  and  sayings  but  the  idle 
coinage  of  the  poet's  brain.  But  are  they  not  real  ?  They 
are  as  real  as  our  own  thoughts.  Their  reality  is  in  the  reader's 
mind.  It  is  we  who  are  Hamlet.  This  play  is  a  prophetic  truth, 
which  is  above  that  of  history. 

2.  Whoever  has  become  thoughtful  and  inel'aneholv  through 
his  own  mishaps  or  those  of  others  ;  whoever  has  borne  about 


4:8(3  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

wifih  liim  the  clouded  brow  of  reflection,  and  thought  himself 
"  too  much  i'  th'  sun  ;"  whoever  has  seen  the  golden  lamp  of 
day  dimmed  by  envious  mists  rising  in  his  own  breast,  and 
could  find  in  the  world  before  him  only  a  dull  blank,  with 
nothing  left  remarkable  in  it ;  whoever  has  known  "  the  pangs 
of  despised  love,  the  insolence  of  office,  or  the  spurns  which 
patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes  ;"  he  who  has  felt  his  mind 
sink  within  him,  and  sadness  cling  to  his  heart  like  a  malady  ; 
who  has  had  his  hopes  blighted  and  his  youth  staggered  by  the 
apparitions  of  strange  things  ;  who  can  not  be  well  at  ease, 
while  he  sees  evil  hovering  near  him  like  a  specter  ;  whose 
powers  of  action  have  been  eaten  up  by  thought ;  he  to  whom 
the  universe  seems  infinite,  and  himself  nothing  ;  whose  bitter- 
ness of  soul  makes  him  careless  of  consequences  :  this  is  the 
true  Hamlet. 

3.  We  have  been  so  used  to  this  tragedy,1  that  we  hardly 
know  how  to  criticise  it,  any  more  than  we  should  know  how 
to  describe  our  own  faces.  But  we  must  make  such  observa- 
tions as  we  can.  It  is  the  one  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  that  we 
think  of  oftenest,  because  it  abounds  most  in  striking  reflections 
on  human  life,  and  because  the  distresses  of  Hamlet  are  trans- 
ferred, by  the  turn  of  his  mind,  to  the  general  account  of  human- 
ity. Whatever  happens  to  him,  we  apply  to  ourselves  ;  because 
he  applies  it  so  himself,  as  a  means  of  general  reasoning. 

4.  He  is  a  great  nioralizer,  and  what  makes  him  worth  at- 
tending to,  is,  that  he  moralizes  on  his  own  feelings  and  expe- 
rience. He  is  not  a  commonplace  pedant.  If  Lear  shows  the 
greatest  depth  of  passion,  Hamlet  is  the  most  remarkable  for 
the  ingenuity,  originality,  and  unstudied  development  of  char- 
acter. There  is  no  attempt  to  force  an  interest :  every  thing  is 
left  for  time  and  cir'cumstances  to  unfold.  The  attention  is 
excited  without  effort ;  the  incidents  succeed  each  other  as 
matters  of  course  ;  the  characters  think,  and  speak,  and  act, 
just  as  they  might  do,  if  left  entirely  to  themselves.  There  is 
no  set  purpose,  no  straining  aj;  a  point. 

5.  The  observations  are  suggested  by  the  passing  scene — the 
gusts  of  passion  come  and  go  like  sounds  of  music  borne  on  the 

1  Trag'  e  dy,  a  poem  prepared  for  persons,  having  a  fatal  and  mourn- 
the  stage,  representing  some  remark-  ful  end  ;  any  event  by  which  human 
able  action,  performed  by  illustrious    lives  are  lost  by  human  violence. 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.     .  437 

'wind.  The  whole  play  is  an  exact  transcript  of  what  might  be 
supposed  to  have  taken  place  at  the  court  of  Denmark,  at  the 
remote  period  of  time  fixed  upon,  before  the  modern  refinements 
in  morals  and  manners  were  heard  of.  It  wTould  have  been 
m'teresting  enough  to  have  been  admitted,  as  a  by-stander  in 
such  a  scene,  at  such  a  time,  to  have  heard  and  seen  something 
of  what  was  going  on. 

6.  But  hero  we  are  more  than  spectators.  We  have  not  only 
"the  outward  pageants  and  the  signs  of  grief,"  but  "we  have 
that  within  which  passes  show."  We  read  the  thoughts  of  the 
heart,  we  catch  the  passions  living  as  they  rise.  Other  dramatic 
writers  give  us  very  fine  versions  and  paraphrases  of  nature  ; 
but  Shakspeare,  together  with  his  own  comment,  gives  us  the 
original  text,  that  we  may  judge  for  ourselves.  This  is  a  great 
advantage. 

7.  The  character  of  Hamlet  is  itself  a  pure  effusion  of  genius. 
It  is  not  a  character  marked  by  strength  of  will,  or  even  of 
passion,  but  by  refinement  of  thought  and  sentiment.  Hamlet 
is  as  little  of  the  hero  as  man  well  can  be  :  but  he  is  a  young 
and  princely  novice,  full  of  high  enthusiasm  and  quick  sensi- 
bility,— the  sport  of  circumstances,  questioning  with  fortune, 
and  refining  on  his  own  feelings  ;  and  forced  from  the  natural 
bias  of  his  disposition  by  the  strangeness  of  his  situation. 

Hazlitt. 
William  Hazlitt,  an  English  author,  was  horn  at  Maidstone,  April  10th, 
1778.  After  graduating  at  college,  he  first  became  a  painter,  but  finding  he  was 
not  likely  to  reach  the  highest  standard,  he  renounced  the  art  and  embarked  in 
a  literary  career.  His  essay  on  "The  Principles  of  Human  Action,"  appeared 
in  1805.  Thenceforth  his  principal  support  was  derived  from  his  contributions 
to  the  periodicals,  and  his  occasional  publications  and  lectures.  Among  his 
best  known  works  are :  "Characters  of  Sbakspeare's  Plays,"  which  appeared  in 
London  in  1817;  "A  View  of  the  English  Stage,"  1818;  "Lectures  on  the  En- 
glish Poets,"  1818;  "Lectures  on  the  English  Comic  Writers,"  1819;  "Tkble 
Talk,"  1821 ;  and  "  Life  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte."  He  lived  In  Loudon  daring  the 
last  twenty  years  of  his  life,  in  a  house  in  Westminster,  once  occupied  by  Milton. 
He  died  September  IS,  1SC0. 

n. 

158.     SCENES    FROM    HAMLET. 

PART   FIRST. 

Enter  the  King,  Queen,  Hamlet,  Lords,  and  Attendants. 

KING.  Though  yet  of  Hamlet  our  dear  brother's  death 
The  memory  be  green  ;  and  that  it  us  befitted 
To  bear  our  hearts  in  grief,  and  our  whole  kingdom 


488  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER 

To  be  contracted  in  one  brow  of  woe  ; 
Yet  so  far  hath  discretion  fought  with  nature, 
That  we  with  wisest  sorrow  think  on  him, 
Together  with  remembrance  of  ourselves. 
Therefore  our  sometime  sister,  now  our  queen. 
The  imperial  jointress  of  this  warlike  state, 
Have  we,  as  'twere,  with  a  defeated  joy, — 
Taken  to  wife  :  nor  have  we  herein  barred 
Your  better  wisdoms,  which  have  freely  gone 
With  this  affair  along  : — For  all,  our  thanks. 
But  now,  my  cousin  Hamlet,  and  my  son, 

Ham.  A  little  more  than  kin,  and  less  than  kind.  [Aside 

King.  How  is  it  that  the  clouds  still  hang  on  you  ? 

Ham.  Not  so,  my  lord,  I  am  too  much  iJ  the  sun. 

Queen.  Good  Hamlet,  cast  thy  nighted  color  off, 
And  let  thine  eye  look  like  a  friend  on  Denmark. 
Do  not,  for  ever,  with  thy  vailed  lids, 
Seek  for  thy  noble  father  in  the  dust  : 
Thou  know'st,  'tis  common  ;  all  that  live,  must  die, 
Passing  through  nature  to  eternity. 

Ham.  Ay,  madam,  it  is  common. 

Queen.  If  it  be, 

Why  seems  it  so  particular  with  thee  ? 

Ham.  Seems,  madam  !  nay,  it  is  ;  I  know  not  seems. 
'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak,  good  mother, 
Nor  customary  suits  of  solemn  black, 
Nor  windy  suspiration  of  forced  breath, 
No,  nor  the  fruitful  river  in  the  eye, 
Nor  the  dejected  'havior  of  the  visage, 
Together  with  all  forms,  modes,  shows  of  grief, 
That  can  denote  me  truly  :  These,  indeed,  seem  ; 
For  they  are  actions  that  a  man  might  play  : 
But  I  have  that  within,  which  passeth  show  ; 
These,  but  the  trappings  and  the  suits  of  woe. 

King.  'Tis  sweet  and  commendable  in  your  nature,  Hamlet, 
To  give  these  mourning  duties  to  your  father  : 
But,  you  must  know,  your  father  lost  a  father  ; 
That  father  lost,  lost  his  ;  and  the  survivor  bound, 
In  filial  obligation,  for  some  term 
To  do  obsequious  sorrow  :  but  to  persevere 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.  489 

In  obstinate  condolemtnt,  is  a  course 

Of  impious  stubbormiess  ;  'tis  unmanly  grief  : 

It  shows  a  will  most  incorrect  to  heaven  ; 

A  heart  unfortified,  or  mind  impatient  : 

An  understanding  simple  and  unschooled  : 

For  what,  we  know,  must  be  ;  and  is  as  common 

As  any  of  the  most  vulgar  thing  to  sense, 

Why  should  we,  in  our  peevish  opposition, 

Take  it  to  heart  ?     Fye  !  'tis  a  fault  to  heaven. 

We  pray  you,  throw  to  earth 

This  unprevailing  woe  ;  and  think  of  us 

As  of  a  father  :  for  let  the  world  take  note, 

You  are  the  most  immediate  to  our  throne  ; 

Our  chiefest  courtier,  cousin,  and  our  son. 

Queen.  Let  not  thy  mother  lose  her  prayers,  Hamlet : 
I  pray  thee  stay  with  us  ;  go  not  to  Wittenberg. 

Ham.  I  shall  in  all  my  best  obey  you,  madam. 

King.  Why,  'tis  a  loving  and  a  fair  reply  ; 
Be  as  ourself  in  Denmark. — Madam,  come  ; 
This  gentle  and  unforced  accord  of  Hamlet 
Sits  smiling  to  my  heart  :  in  grace  whereof, 
No  jocund  health,  that  Denmark  drinks  to-day 
But  the  great  cannon  to  the  clouds  shall  tell  ; 
Ilc-speaking  earthly  thunder.     Come  away. 

[Exeunt  King,  Queen,  Lords,  &c. 

Earn.  Oh,  that  this  too  too  solid  flesh  would  melt, 
Thaw,  and  resolve  itself  into  a  dew ! 
Or  that  the  Everlasting  had  not  fixed 
His  canon  'gainst  self-slaughter  ! 
How  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable 
Seem  to  me  all  the  uses  of  this  world ! 
Fye  on't !     Oh  fye  !  'tis  an  unweeded  garden, 
That  grows  to  seed  :  things  rank,  and  gross  in  nature, 
Possess  it  merely.     That  it  should  come  to  this  ! 
But  two  months  dead ! — nay,  not  so  much,  not  two  ; 
So  excellent  a  king  ;  that  was,  to  this, 
Hyperion '  to  a  satyr  : 3  so  loving  to  my  mother, 

1  Hy  pe'ri  on,  the  father  of  Au-     of  Apollo,  the  god  of  day,  who  was 
rora,  and  the  Sun  and  Moon  ;  or,  as     distinguished  for  his  beauty. 
Shakspeare  represents,  this  is  a  name        '  Sa'tyr,  a  demigod  or  dehy  of 

21* 


490  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

That  lie  might  not  beteem'the  winds  of  heaven 

Visit  her  face  too  roughly.     Heaven  and  earth ! 

Must  I  remember  ?     And  yet,  within  a  month, — 

Let  me  not  think  on't ; — Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman  I— 

A  little  month  ;  or  ere  those  shoes  were  old, 

"With  which  she  followed  my  poor  father's  body, 

Like  Ni'obe,  all  tears  ; — why  she,  even  she, — 

0  heaven  !  a  beast,  that  wants  discourse  of  reason, 
Would  have  mourned  longer, — married  with  my  uncle, 
My  father's  brother  ;  but  no  more  like  my  father, 
Than  I  to  Hercules  : 

It  is  not,  nor  it  can  not  come  to,  good  ; 
But  break,  my  heart ;  for  I  must  hold  my  tongue  ! 
Enter  Horatio,  Bernardo,  and  Marcellus. 

Hor.  Hail  to  your  lordship  ! 

Ham.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well : 

Horatio, — or  I  do  forget  myself. 

Hor.  The  same,  my  lord,  and  your  poor  servant  ever. 

Ham.  Sir,  my  good  friend  ;  I'll  change  that  name  with  you 
And  what  make  you  from  Wit'tenberg,  Horatio  ? — 
Marcellus  ? 

Mar.  My  good  lord. 

Ham.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  ;  good  even,  sir, — 
But  what,  in  faith,  make  you  from  Wittenberg  ? 

Hor.  A  truant  disposition,  good  my  lord. 

Ham.  I  would  not  hear  your  enemy  say  so  ; 
Nor  shall  you  do  mine  ear  that  violence, 
To  make  it  truster  of  your  own  report 
Against  yourself  :  I  know,  you  are  no  truant. 
But  what  is  your  affair  in  Elsinore  ? 
We'll  teach  you  to  drink  deep,  ere  you  depart. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  came  to  see  your  father's  funeral. 

Ham.  I  pray  thee,  do  not  mock  me,  fellow-student ; 

1  think,  it  was  to  see  my  mother's  wedding. 

Hor.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  followed  hard  upon. 


the  wood,  described  as  a  monster,  the  nose  round  and  turned  upward, 

part  man  and  part  goat,  and  charac-  the  ears   pointed,  with   two   small 

terized  by  riotous  merriment  and  in-  horns  growing  out  of  the  forehead, 

dulgence  in  sensual   pleasure.     Sa-  and  a  tail  like  that  of  a  goat, 

tyrs  are  represented  with  bristly  hair,  '  Be  teem',  allow;  Buffer. 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.  491 

Ham.  Thrift,  thrift,  Horatio  !  the  funeral  baked  meats 
Did  coldly  furnish  forth  the  marriage  tables. 
'Would  I  had  met  my  dearest  foe  in  heaven 
Or  ever  I  had  seen  that  day,  Horatio ! — 
My  father, — Methinks,  I  see  my  father. 

Ilor.  Where, 

My  lord  ? 

Ham.  In  my  mind's  eye,  Horatio. 

Hor.  I  saw  him  once,  he  was  a  goodly  king. 

Ham.  He  was  (woz)  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  think  I  saw  him  yesternight 

Ham.  Saw !  whom  ? 

Hor.  My  lord,  the  king  your  father. 

Ham.  The  king,  my  father  ? 

Hor.  Season  your  admiration  for  a  while 
With  an  atteut  ear  ;  till  I  may  deliver, 
Upon  the  witness  of  these  gentlemen, 
This  marvel  to  you. 

Ham.  For  heaven's  love,  let  me  hear. 

Hor.  Two  nights  together  had  these  gentlemen, 
Marcellus  and  Bernardo,  on  their  watch, 
In  the  dead  waist  and  middle  of  the  night, 
Been  thus  encountered.     A  figure  like  your  father, 
Armed  at  point,  exactly,  cap-a-pe, 
Appears  before  thein,  and,  with  solemn  march, 
Goes  slow  and  stately  by  them  :  thrice  he  walked, 
By  their  oppressed  and  fear-surprised  eyes, 
Within  his  truncheon's  length  ;  whilst  they,  distilled 
Almost  to  jelly  with  the  act  of  fear, 
Stand  dumb,  and  speak  not  to  him.     This  to  me 
In  dreadful  secrecy  impart  they  did  ; 
And  I  with  them,  the  third  night  kept  the  watch  , 
WTiere,  as  they  had  delivered,  both  in  time, 
Form  of  the  thing,  each  word  made  true  and  good, 
The  apparition  comes  :  I  knew  your  father  ; 
These  hands  are  not  more  like. 

Ham.  But  where  was  this  ? 

Mar.  My  lord,  upon  the  platform  where  we  watched. 

Ham.  Did  you  not  speak  to  it  ? 


492  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Hor.  My  lord,  I  did  ; 

But  answer  made  it  none  (nun)  ;  yet  once,  niethought, 
It  lifted  up  its  head,  and  did  address 
^Itself  to  motion,  like  as  it  would  speak  ; 
But,  even  then,  the  morning  cock  crew  loud  ; 
And,  at  the  sound,  it  shrunk  in  haste  away, 
And  vanished  from  our  sight. 

Ham.  'Tis  very  strange. 

Hor.  As  I  do  live,  my  honored  lord,  'tis  true  ; 
And  we  did  think  it  writ  down  in  our  duty, 
To  let  you  know  of  it. 

Ham.  Indeed,  indeed,  sirs,  but  this  troubles  ma 
Hold  you  the  watch  to-night  ? 

All.  We  do,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Armed,  say  you  ? 

All.  Armed,  my  lord. 

Ham.  From  top  to  toe  ? 

All.  My  lord,  from  head  to  foot. 

Ham.  Then  saw  vou  not 

His  face  ? 

Hor.  O,  yes,  my  lord  ;  he  wore  his  beaver  up 

Ham.  What !  looked  he  frowningly  ? 

Hor.  A  countenance  more 

In  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

Ham.  Pale,  or  red  ? 

Hor.  Nay,  very  pale. 

Ham.  And  fixed  his  eyes  upon  you  ? 

Hor.  Most  constantly. 

Ham.  I  would,  I  had  been  there. 

Hor.  It  would  have  much  amazed  you. 

Ham.  Very  like, 

Very  like.     Stay'd  it  long  ? 

Hor.  While  one  with  moderate  haste  might  tell  a  hundred* 

Ham.  His  beard  was  grizzled  ? — no  ? 

Hor.  It  was,  as  I  have  seen  it  in  his  life, 
A  sable  silvered. 

Ham.  I  will  watch  to-night ; 

Perchance,  'twill  walk  again. 

Hor.  I  wan-ant,  'twill. 

Ham.  If  it  assume  my  noble  father's  person, 


SCENES    FKOM    HAMLET.  493 

I'll  speak  to  it,  though  hell  itself  should  gape,1 
And  bid  me  hold  my  peace.     I  pray  you  all, 
If  you  have  hitherto  concealed  this  sight, 
Let  it  be  tenable  in  your  silence  still ; 
And  whatsoever  else  shall  hap  to-night, 
Give  it  an  understanding,  but  no  tongue  : 
I  will  requite  your  loves.     So,  fare  you  well : 
Upon  the  platform,  'twixt  eleven  and  twelve, 
I'll  visit  you. 

All.  Our  duty  to  your  honor. 

Ham.  Your  loves,  as  mine  to  you :  Farewell. 

[Exeunt  Horatio,  Marcellus,  and  Bernardo. 
My  father's  spirit  in  arms  !  all  is  not  well  ; 
I  doubt  some  foul  play  :  'would,  the  night  were  come  ! 
Till  then,  sit  still,  my  soul.     Foul  deeds  will  rise, 
Though  all  the  earth  6'erwhelm  them,  to  men's  eyes. 

m. 

159.     SCENES    FROM    HAMLET. 

PART   SECOND. 

Enter  Hamlet,  Horatio,  and  Marcellus. 

HAMLET.  The  air  bites  shrewdly  ;  it  is  very  cold. 
Horatio.  It  is  a  nipping  and  an  eager  air. 

Ham.  What  hour  now  ? 

Hor.  I  think,  it  lacks  of  twelve. 

Mar.  No,  it  is  struck. 

Hor.  Indeed  ?  I  heard  it  not ;  then  it  draws  near  the  season, 
"Wherein  the  spirit  held  his  wont 3  to  walk. 

[A  flourish  of  trumpets,  and  ordnance  shot  off,  within. 
What  does  this  mean,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  The  king  doth  wake  to-night,  and  takes  his  rouse,' 
And,  as  he  drains  his  draughts  of  R/ienish  down, 
The  kettle-drum  and  trumpet  thus  bray  out 
The  triumph  of  his  pledge. 

Hor.  Is  it  a  custom  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  marry,  is't ; 

• _ — _ —  . — . —     -  ■        » 

1  Gape,  (gap).  *  Rouse,  (rouz),  a  carousal ;  a  fes- 

1  Wotit,  (wunt),  custom  ;  habit.         tival ;  a  drinking  frolic. 


494  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

But  to  my  mind, — though  I  am  native  here, 
And  to  the  manner  born, — it  is  a  custom 
More  honored  in  the  breach,  than  the  observance. 

Enter  Ghost. 

Hor.  Look,  my  lord,  it  comes ! 

Ham.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace  defend  us ! 
Be  thou  a  spirit  of  health,  or  goblin  damned, 
Bring  with  thee  airs  from  heaven,  or  blasts  from  hell, 
Be  thy  intents  wicked,  or  charitable, 
Thou  com'st  in  such  a  questionable  shape, 
That  I  will  speak  to  thee  ;  I'll  call  thee  Hamlet, 
King,  father,  royal  Dane  :  O,  answer  me  : 
Let  me  not  burst  in  ingorance !  but  tell, 
Why  thy  canonized  bones,  hearsed  in  death, 
Have  burst  their  cere'ments  !  why  the  sepulcher 
Wherein  we  saw  thee  quietly  in-urned, 
Hath  6ped  his  ponderous  and  marble  jaws, 
To  cast  thee  up  again !     What  may  this  mean, 
That  thou,  dead  corse,  again,  in  complete  steel, 
Revisit'st  thus  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
Making  night  hideous  ;  and  we  fools  of  nature, 
So  horribly  to  shake  our  disposition, 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  our  souls  ? 
Say  why  is  this  ?  wherefore  ?  what  should  we  do  ? 

Hor.  It  beckons  you  to  go  away  with  it, 
As  if  it  some  impartment  did  desire 
To  you  alone. 

Mar.  Look,  with  what  courteous1  action 

It  waves  you  to  a  more  removed  ground  ; 
But  do  not  go  with  it. 

Hor.  No,  by  no  means. 

Ham.  It  will  not  speak  ;  then  I  will  follow  it. 

Hor.  Do  not,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Whv,  what  should  be  the  fear  ? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee  ; 
And,  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself? 
It  waves  me  forth  again  ; — I'll  follow  it. 

1  • 3  Corteous,  (kert'  e  us),  of  court-like  or  elegant  and  condescending  man 
new ;  well-bred  ;  complaisant. 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.  4fJ.j 

Hor.  What,  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  lord, 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff, 
That  beetles  6'er  his  base  into  the  sea  ? 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
And  draw  you  into  madness  ? 

Ham.  It  waves  me  still : — 

Go  on,  I'll  follow  thee. 

Mar.  You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Hold  off  your  hands. 

Hor.  Be  ruled,  you  shall  not  go. 

Ham.  My  fate  cries  out, 

And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Ne'mean  lion's  nerve. —  [Ghost  beckons. 

Still  am  I  called  ; — unhand  me,  gentlemen  : — 

[Breaking  from  them. 
By  heaven,  I'll  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets1  me  : — 
I  say,  away! — Go  on,  I'll  follow  thee. 

[Exeunt  Ghost  and  Hamlet,  followed 
by  Horatio  and  Marcellus. 
Re-enter  Ghost  and  Hamlet. 

Ham.  Whither  wilt  thou  lead  me  ?  speak,  I'll  go  no  further. 

Ghost.  Mark  me. 

Ham.  I  will. 

Ghost.  My  hour  is  almost  come, 

When  I  to  sulphurous  and  tormenting  flames 
Must  render  up  myself. 

Ham.  Alas,  poor  ghost! 

GJiost.  Pity  me  not,  but  lend  thy  serious  hearing 
To  what  I  shall  unfold. 

Ham.  Speak,  I  am  bound  to  hear. 

Ghost.  So  art  thou  to  revenge,  when  thou  shalt  hear. 

Ham.  What? 

Ghost.  I  am  thy  father's  spirit ; 
Doomed  for  a  certain  term  to  walk  the  night, 
And,  for  the  day  confined  to  fast  in  fires, 
Till  the  foul  crimes,  done  in  my  days  of  nature, 
Axe  burnt  and  purged  away.     But  that  I  am  forbid 
To  tell  the  secrets  of  m}'  prison-house, 
I  could  a  tale  unfold,  whose  lightest  word 

1  Lets,  retards  ;  hinders. 


496  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

Would  harrow  up  thy  soul  ;  freeze  thy  young  blood  ; 

Make  thy  two  eyes,  like  stars,  start  from  their  spheres  ; 

Thy  knotted  and  combined  locks  to  part, 

And  each  particular  hair  to  stand  on  end, 

Like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine  : 

But  this  eternal  blazon  must  not  be 

To  ears  of  flesh  and  blood  :— List, — list, — O  list! — 

If  thou  didst  ever  thy  dear  father  love, ■ 

Ham.  0  heaven ! 

GJwst.  Revenge  his  foul  and  most  unnatural  murder. 

Ham.  Murder? 

Ghost.  Murder  most  foul,  as  in  the  best  it  is  ; 
But  this  most  foul,  strange,  and  unnatural, 

Ham.  Haste  me  to  know  it ;  that  I,  with  wings  as  swift 
As  meditation,  or  the  thoughts  of  love, 
May  sweep  to  my  revenge. 

Ghost.  I  find  thee  apt ; 

And  duller  should'st  thou  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  rots  itself  in  ease  on  Lethe  '  wharf, 
Would'st  thou  not  stir  in  this.     Now,  Hamlet,  hear  : 
'Tis  given  out,  that  sleeping  in  mine  orchard, 
A  serpent  stung  me  ;  so  the  whole  ear  of  Denmark 
Is  by  a  forged  process  of  my  death 
Rankly  abused  :  but  know,  thou  noble  youth, 
The  serpent  that  did  sting  thy  father's  life, 
Now  wears  his  crown. 

Ham.  0,  my  prophetic  soul !  my  uncle ! 

Ghost.  Ay, — 

With  witchcraft  of  his  wit,  with  traitorous  gifts, 
He  won  to  his  shameful  love 
The  will  of  my  most  seeming  virtuous  queen  : 
O,  Hamlet,  what  a  falling-off  was  there ! 
From  me,  whose  love  was  of  that  dignity, 
That  it  went  hand  and  hand  even  with  the  vow 
I  made  to  her  in  marriage  ;  \  and  to  decline 


1  L6'  the,  a  river  of  Africa,  water-  cause    the   name   signifies  oblivion, 

ing  the  city  of  Berenice,  which,  be-  was  feigned  to  cause  forgetfulness 

cause  it   runs    many  miles    under  of  all  that  was  past  to  those  who 

ground,  was  fabled  by  the  poets  to  drank  of  its  waters ;  oblivion ;  for- 

be  one  of  the  rivers  of  hell,  and  be-  get-fulness. 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.  497 

Upon  a  wretch,  whose  natural  gifts  were  poor 

To  those  of  mine ! — 

But,  soft !  methinks,  I  scent  the  morning  air  ; 

Brief  let  me  be  : — Sleeping  within  my  orchard, 

My  custom  always  of  the  afternoon, 

Upon  my  secure  hour  thy  uncle  stole, 

With  juice  of  cursed  hebenon  in  a  vial, 

And  in  the  porches  of  mine  ears  did  pour 

The  leperous  distillment ;  whose  effect 

Holds  such  an  enmity  with  blood  of  man, 

That,  swift  as  quicksilver,  it  courses  through 

The  natural  gates  and  alleys  of  the  body  ; 

And,  with  a  sudden  vigor,  it  doth  posset 

And  curd,  like  eager  droppings  into  milk, 

The  thin  and  wholesome  blood  :  so  did  it  mine  ; 

Thus  was  I,  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand, 

Of  life,  of  crown,  of  queen,  at  once  dispatched  : 

Cut  off  even  in  the  blossoms  of  my  sin, 

No  reckoning  made,  but  sent  to  my  account 

With  all  my  imperfections  on  my  head. 

Ham.  O,  horrible !  O,  horrible !  most  horrible ! 

Ghost.  If  thou  hast  nature  in  thee,  bear  it  not ; 
But,  howsoever  thou  pursu'st  this  act, 
Taint  not  thy  mind,  nor  let  thy  soul  contrive 
Against  thy  mother  aught :  leave  her  to  heaven, 
And  to  those  thorns  that  in  her  bosom  lodge, 
To  goad  and  sting  her.     Fare  thee  well  at  once ! 
The  glow-worm  shows  the  matin  to  be  near, 
And  'gins  to  pale  his  ineffectual  fire  : 
Adieu,  adieu,  adieu !  remember  me.  [Exit. 

Ham.  Hold,  hold,  my  heart : 
And  you  my  sinews,  grow  not  instant  old, 
Bat  bear  me  stiffly  up ! — Remember  thee  ! 
Ay,  thou  poor  ghost,  while  memory  holds  a  seat 
In  this  distracted  globe.     Ilemember  thee  ? 
Yea,  from  the  table  of  my  memory 
I'll  wipe  away  all  trivial  fond  records, 
All  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all  pressures  past 
That  youth  and  observation  copied  there  ; 
And  thy  commandment  all  alone  shall  live 


£9S  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Within  the  book  and  volume  of  my  brain, 
Unmixed  with  baser  matter  :  yes,  by  heaven, 
I  have  sworn't. 

IV. 

160.     SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.1 

PART    THIIID. 

PoLOtfius  interrupts  Hamlet  who  is  reading  a  booh. 

POLONIUS.  Do  you  know  me,  my  lord  ? 
Hamlet.  Excellent  well  ;  you  are  a  fishmonger. 

Pol.  Not  I,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Then  I  would  you  were  so  honest  a  man. 

Pol.  Honest,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Ay,  sir  ;  to  be  honest,  as  this  world  goes,  is  to  be  one 
man  picked  out  of  ten  thousand. 

Pol.  That's  very  true,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Have  you  a  daughter  ? 

Pol.  I  have,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Let  her  not  walk  i'  the  sun  :  friend,  look  to't. 

Pol.  How  say  you  by  that?  [Aside.]  Still  harping  on  my 
daughter  : — yet  he  knew  me  not  at  first ;  he  said,  I  was  a  fish- 
monger. He  is  far  gone,  far  gone  ;  and,  truly,  in  my  youth  I 
suffered  much  extremity  for  love  ; — very  near  this.  I'll  speak  to 
him  again.     [To  Hamlet.]     What  do  you  read,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Words,  words,  words. 

Pol.  What  is  the  matter,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Between  whom  ? 

Pol.  I  mean  the  matter  that  you  read,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Slanders,  sir  :  for  the  satirical  rogue  says  here,  that 
old  men  have  gray  beards  ;  that  their  faces  are  wrinkled  ;  all  of 
which,  sir,  though  I  most  powerfully  and  potently  believe,  yet 
I  hold  it  not  honesty  to  have  it  thus  set  down  ;  for  yourself,  sir, 
should  be  as  old  as  I  am,  if,  like  a  crab,  you  could  go  backward. 

1  Hamlet,  after  the  interview  with  of  his  former  companions,  to  draw 
the  ghost  of  his  father,  in  order  that  out,  if  possible,  the  secret  which 
he  may  verify  his  belief  of  the  mur-  oppresses  him.  Polonius,  lord  chain- 
der  and  successfully  avenge  it,  affects  berlain  of  the  palace,  an  aged  man, 
insanity.  The  king  and  queen  are  also  tries  to  fathom  him,  and  con- 
so  disturbed  by  this  that  they  send  fidently  declares  him  crazy  through 
Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstcrn,  two  lovesickness. 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.  499 

Pol.  [Aside.']  Though  this  be  madness,  yet  there's  method  in 
it.     [To  Hamlet.]     Will  you  walk  out  of  the  air,  my  lord? 

Ham.  Into  my  grave  ? 

Pol.  Indeed,  that  is  out  o'  the  air.  [Aside]  How  pregnant 
sometimes  his  replies  are !  a  happiness  that  often  madness  hits 
on,  which  reason  and  sanity  could  not  so  prosperously  be  deliv- 
ered of.  [  To  Hamlet.]  My  honorable  lord,  I  will  most  humbly 
take  my  leave  of  you. 

Ham.  You  can  not,  sir,  take  from  me  anything  that  I  will 
more  willingly  part  withal  ;  except  my  life,  except  my  life,  ex- 
cept my  life. 

Pol.     Faie  you  well,  my  lord.  [Exit. 

Enter  Rosencbantz  and  Qutldenstebn. 

Guil.  My  honored  lord ! — 

Bos.  My  most  dear  lord ! — 

Ham  My  excellent  good  friends !  How  dost  thou,  Guilden- 
stern  ?  Ah,  Roscncrantz !  Good  lads,  how  do  ye  both  ?  What 
news? 

Pos.  None,  my  lord,  but  that  the  world  's  grown  honest. 

Ham.  Then  is  dooms-day  near.  But  your  news  is  not  true. 
Let  me  question  more  in  particular.  What  have  you,  my  good 
friends,  deserved  at  the  hands  of  fortune,  that  she  sends  you  to 
prison  hither  ? 

Guil.  Prison,  my  lord! 

Ham.  Denmark's  a  prison. 

Pos.  Then  is  the  world  one. 

Ham.  A  goodly  one  ;  in  which  there  are  many  con'nnes, 
wards,  and  dungeons  ;  Denmark  being  one  of  the  worst. 

Pos.  We  think  not  so,  my  lord. 

Ham.  Why,  then,  't  is  none  (nun)  to  you  ;  for  there  is  noth- 
ing (nuth'ing)  either  good  or  bad,  but  thinking  makes  it  so  : 
to  me  it  is  a  prison. 

Pos.  Why,  then  your  ambition  makes  it  one  :  't  is  too  narrow 
for  your  mind. 

Ham.  0,  I  could  be  bounded  in  a  nutshell,  and  count  mysell 
a  king  of  infinite  space,  were  it  not  that  I  have  bad  dreams. 
But,  in  the  beaten  way  of  friendship,  what  make  you  at  Elsinore  ? 

Pos.  To  visit  you,  my  lord  ;  no  other  occasion. 

Ham.  Beggar  that  I  am,  I  am  even  poor  in  thanks  ;  but  I 
thank  you.     Were  you  not  sent  for  ?     Is  it  your  own  inclining? 


500  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Is  it  a  free  visitation  ?  Coine,  come  ;  deal  justly  with  me  : 
come,  come  ;  nay,  speak. 

Guil.  What  should  we  say,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  Any  thing — hut  to  the  purpose.  You  were  sent  for  ; 
and  there  is  a  kind  of  confession  in  your  looks,  which  your 
modesties  have  not  craft  enough  to  color ;  I  know  the  good 
king  and  queen  have  sent  for  you. 

Bos.  To  what  end,  my  lord  ? 

Ham.  That  you  must  teach  me.  But  let  me  conjure'  you,  by 
the  rights  of  our  fellowship,  by  the  consonancy  of  our  youth, 
by  the  obligation  of  our  ever-preserved  love,  and  by  what  more 
dear  a  better  proposer  could  charge  you  withal,  be  even  and 
direct  with  me,  whether  ye  were  sent  for,  or  no  ? 

Bos.  [To  Guildenstern.]     What  say  you  ? 

Ham.  [Aside.']  Nay,  then  I  have  an  eye  of  you.  [To  them.] 
If  you  love  me,  hold  not  off. 

Guil.  My  lord,  we  were  sent  for. 

Ham.  I  will  tell  you  why ;  so  shall  my  anticipation  prevent 
your  discovery,  and  your  secrecy  to  the  king  and  queen  moult 
no  feather.  I  have  of  late  (but,  wherefore,  I  know  not,)  lost  all 
my  mirth,  foregone  all  custom  of  exercises  :  and,  indeed,  it  goes 
so  heavily  with  my  disposition,  that  this  goodly  frame,  the  earth, 
seems  to  me  a  sterile  prorn'ontory  ;  this  most  excellent  canopy, 
the  air,  look  you,  this  brave  o'erhanging  firmament,  this  majes- 
tical  roof,  fretted  with  golden  fire,  why,  it  appears  no  other 
thing  to  me  than  a  foul  and  pestilent  congregation  of  vapors. 
WTiat  a  piece  of  work  is  a  mr,n !  How  noble  in  reason !  how 
infinite  in  faculties!  in  form,  and  moving,  how  express  and 
admirable !  in  action,  how  like  an  angel !  in  apprehension,  how 
like  a  god !  the  beauty  of  the  world !  the  paragon  of  animals ! 
And  yet,  to  me,  what  is  this  quintessence  of  dust  ? — Gentlemen, 
you  are  welcome  to  Elsinore.  Your  hands.  You  are  welcome  ; 
but  my  uncle-father  and  aunt-mother  are  deceived. 

Guil.  In  what,  my  dear  lord  ? 

Ham.  I  am  but  mad  north-north-west  :  when  the  wind  is 
southerlv,  I  know  a  hawk  from  a  hand-saw. 

Be'enter  Polonius. 
Pol.  My  lord,  the  queen  would  speak  with  you,  and  presently. 
Ham.  Do  you  see  yonder  cloud,  that's  almost  in  shape  of  a 
camel  ? 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.  501 

Pol.  By  the  mass,  and  t  is  like  a  camel,  indeed. 

Ham.  Methinks,  it  is  like  a  weasel. 

Pol.  It  is  backed  like  a  weasel. 

Ham.  Or,  like  a  whale. 

Pol.  Very  like  a  whale. 

Ham.  Then  will  I  come  to  my  mother  by  and  by.  — They  fool 
me  to  the  top  of  my  bent. — I  will  come  by  and  by. 

Pol.  I  will  say  so.  [Exit  Polonius. 

Ham.  By  and  by  is  easily  said. — Leave  me,  friends. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  Guil. 
'Tis  now  the  very  witching  time  of  night ; 
When  churchyards  yawn,  and  hell  itself  breathes  out 
Contagion  to  this  world  :  now  could  I  drink  hot  blood, 
And  do  such  bitter  business  as  the  day 
Would  quake  to  look  on.     Soft ;  now  to  my  mother ! — 

0  heart,  lose  not  thy  nature  ;  let  not  ever 
The  soul  of  Nero  enter  this  firm  bosom  ; 
Let  me  be  cruel,  not  unnatural  : 

1  will  speak  daggers  to  her,  but  use  none. 

V. 

161.     SCENES    FROM    HAMLET. 


PART  FOURTH.1 


H 


Enter  Queen  and  Hamlet. 

AMLET.  Now,  mother,  what's  the  matter? 
Queen.  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father  much  offended. 
Ham.  Mother,  you  have  my  father  much  offended. 
Queen.  Come,  come,  you  answer  with  an  idle  toDgue. 
Ham.  Go,  go,  you  question  with  a  wicked  tongue. 
Queen.  Why,  how  now,  Hamlet  ? 

Ham.  .      "What's  the  matter  now? 

Queen.  Have  you  forgot  me  ? 
Ham.  No,  by  the  rood,2  not  so  : 

1  Hamlet,  doubtful  of  the  relation  the  plot,  and  he  becomes  fully  con- 

of   the  ghost,   and    fearful   that   it  vinced  that  his  uncle  was  the  mut- 

might  be  only  the  tale  of  a  wicked  derer  of  his  father, 

spirit,  laid  a  plot  to  convince  himself  2  Rood,  (rfld),  the  cross,  or  an  im- 

of  his   uncle's   participation  in  the  age  of  Christ  on  the  cross,  with  the 

murder  :  and  the  scene  here  given  Virgin    Mary   and   a   saint,   or   St. 

occurs  after  the  successful  issue  of  John,  on  each  side  of  it. 


502  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

You  are  the  queen,  your  husband's  brother's  wife  ; 
And — would  it  were  not  so ! — you  are  ray  mother. 

Queen.  Nay,  then  I'll  set  those  to  you  that  can  speak. 

Ham.  Come,  come,  and  sit  you  down  ;  you  shall  not  budge  ; 
You  go  not  till  I  set  you  up  a  glass 
Where  you  may  see  the  inmost  part  of  you. 

Queen.  What  wilt  thou  do  ? — thou  wilt  not  murder  me  ? 

Ham.  Leave  wringing  of  your  hands  :  peace  ;  sit  you  down, 
And  let  me  wring  your  heart :  for  so  I  shall, 
If  it  be  made  of  penetrable  stuff ; 
If  damned  custom  have  not  brazed  it  so, 
That  it  is  proof  and  bulwark  against  sense. 

Queen.  WTiat  have  I  done,  that  thou  darest  wag  thy  tongue 
In  noise  so  rude  against  me  ? 

Ham.  Such  an  act, 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty  ; 
Calls  virtue,  hypocrite  ;  takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  an  innocent  love, 
And  sets  a  blister  there  ;  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicer's  oath !  oh,  such  a  deed 
As  from  the  body  of  contraction  plucks 
The  very  soul ;  and  sweet  religion  makes 
A  rhapsody  of  words.     Heaven's  face  doth  glow  ; 
Yea,  this  solidity  and  compound  mass, 
With  tristful  visage,  as  against  the  doom, 
Is  thought-sick  at  the  act. 

Queen.  Ah  me  !  what  act, 

That  roars  so  loud,  and  thunders  in  the  index  ? 

Ham.  Look  here,  upon  this  picture,  and  on  this  ; 
The  counterfeit  presentment  of  two  brothers. 
See  what  a  grace  was  seated  on  this  brow  : 
Hyperion's  curls  ;  the  front  of  Jove  himself  ; 
An  eye  like  Mars,1  to  threaten  and  command ; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury,2 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill ; 


1  Mars,  an   ancient   Roman  god,'  est  honors  at  Rome  ;  also,  a  planet, 
who,  at  an  early  period,  was  iden-        2Mer'cury,  in  mythology, themes' 

tified  with  the  Greek  Ares,  or  the  sender  and  interpreter  of  the  gods, 

god  delighting  in  bloody  war.    Next  and  the  god  of  eloquence  and  of  com- 

to  Jupiter,  Mars  enjoyed  the  high-  nierce,  called  Hermes  by  the  Greeks 


SCENES    FROM    HAMLET.  503 

A  combination,  and  a  form,  indeed, 

Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal, 

To  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man  : 

This  was  your  husband. — Look  you,  now,  what  follows  r 

Here  is  your  husband  ;  like  a  mildewed  ear, 

Blasting  his  wholesome  brother.     Have  you  eyes  ? 

Could  you  on  this  fail  mountain  leave  to  feed, 

And  batten  on  this  moor?     Ha!  have  3-ou  eyes  ? 

You  can  not  call  it  love  ;  for  at  your  age 

The  heyday  in  the  blood  is  tame,  it's  humble, 

And  waits  upon  the  judgment  ;  and  what  judgment 

Would  step  from  this  to  this  ? 

Queen.  Oh,  speak  no  more ! 

Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul  ; 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots, 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct.1     Oh,  speak  to  me  no  more! 
These  words,  like  daggers,  enter  in  mine  ears  : 
No  more,  sweet  Hamlet ! 

Ham.  A  murderer  and  a  villain  : 

A  slave  that  is  not  twentieth  part  the  time 
Of  your  precedent  lord  : — a  vice  of  kings  : 
A  cut-purse  of  the  empire  and  the  rule  ; 
That  from  a  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole, 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket ! 

Queen.  No  more ! 

Ham.  A  king 

Of  shreds  and  patches  ; —  [Enter  Ghost. 

Save  me  and  hover  o'er  me  with  vour  win^s, 
You  heavenly  guards ! — What  would  your  gracious  figure  ? 

Queen.  Alas,  he's  mad ! 

Ham.  Do  you  not  come  your  tardy  son  to  chide, 
That,  lapsed  in  time  and  passion,  lets  go  by 
The  important  acting  of  your  dread  command? 
O,  say! 

Ghost.  Do  not  forget  :  this  visitation 
Is  but  to  whet  thy  almost  blunted  purpose. 
But  look!  amazement  on  thy  mother  sits  : 
O,  step  between  her  and  her  fighting  soul  : 

1  Tinct,  (tlngkt),  spot ;  stain  ;  color. 


504  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER, 


Speak  to  her,  Hamlet. 

Ham.  How  is  it  with  you,  lady  ? 

Queen.  Alas !  how  is't  with  you, 
That  you  do  bend  your  eye  on  vacancy, 
And  with  the  in  corporal  air  do  hold  discourse  ? 
Whereon  do  you  look  ? 

Ham.  On  him !  on  him !     Look  you,  how  pale  he  glares ! 
His  form  and  cause  conjoined,  preaching  to  stones, 
Would  make  them  capable.     Do  not  look  on  me, 
Lest,  with  this  piteous  action,  you  convert 
My  stern  effects  :  then  what  I  have  to  do 
Will  want  true  color  ;  tears,  perchance,  for  blood. 

Queen.  To  whom  do  you  speak  this  ? 

Ham.  Do  you  see  nothing  there  ? 

Queen.  Nothing  at  all ;  yet  all  that  is  I  see. 

Ham,  Nor  did  you  nothing  hear  ? 

Queen.  No,  nothing,  but  ourselves. 

Ham.  Why,  look  you  there !  look,  how  it  steals  away ! 
My  father,  in  his  habit  as  he  lived ! 
Look,  where  he  goes,  even  now,  out  at  the  portal ! 

[Exit  Ghost. 

Queen.  This  is  the  very  coinage  of  your  brain  : 
This  bodiless  creation,  ecstasy 
Is  very  cunning  in. 

Ham.  Ecstasy ! 

My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth  temperately  keep  time, 
And  makes  as  healthful  music.     It  is  not  madness, 
That  I  have  uttered  :  bring  me  to  the  test, 
And  I  the  matter  will  re-word  ;  which  madness 
Would  gambol  from.     Mother,  for  love  of  grace, 
Lay  not  that  flattering  unction  to  your  soul, 
That  not  your  trespass,  but  my  madness,  speaks  : 
It  will  but  skin  and  film  the  ulcerous  place, 
While  rank  corruption,  mining  all  within, 
Infects  unseen.     Confess  yourself  to  Heaven  ; 
Repent  what's  past ;  avoid  what  is  to  come  ; 
And  do  not  spread  the  compost  on  the  weeds 
To  make  them  ranker. 

Queen.  O  Hamlet !  thou  hast  cleft  my  heart  in  twain. 

Ham.  Oh,  throw  away  the  worser  part  of  it, 


SOCIETY    THE    (J HEAT    EDUCATOR.  505 

And  live  the  purer  with  the  other  half. 

Good-night :  once  more,  good-night ! 

And  when  you  are  desirous  to  be  blest, 

I'll  blessing  beg  of  you.  Shakspeahe. 


SECTION    XXXI. 
I. 

102.     SOCIETY    THE    GREAT    EDUCATOR. 

SOCIETY  is  the  great  educator.  Mure  than  universities, 
more  than  schools,  more  than  books,  society  educates. 
Nature  is  the  schoolhouse,  and  many  lessons  are  writ* en  upon 
its  walls  ;  but  man  is  the  effective  teacher.  Parents,  relatives, 
friends,  associates  ;  social  manners,  maxims,  morals,  worships, 
the  daily  example,  the  fireside  conversation,  the  casual  inter- 
view, the  spirit  that  breathes  through  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
life — these  are  the  powers  and  influences  that  train  the  mass  of 
mankind.  Even  books,  which  are  daily  assuming  a  larger  place 
in  human  training,  are  but  the  influence  of  man  on  man. 

2.  It  is  evident  that  one  of  the  leading  and  ordained  means 
by  which  men  are  raised  in  the  scale  of  knowledge  and  virtue, 
is  the  conversation,  example,  influence  of  men  superior  to  them- 
selves. It  seems,  if  one  may  say  so,  to  be  the  purpose,  the  in- 
tent, the  effort  of  nature — of  Providence,  to  bring  men  together, 
and  to  bring  them  together,  for  the  most  part,  in  relations  of 
discipleship  and  teaching. 

3.  The  social  nature,  first,  draws  them  to  intercourse.  Per- 
petual solitariness  is  intolerable.  But  then,  much  of  their  in- 
tercourse is  on  terms  of  inequality.  Equals  in  age,  people  in 
society,  seldom  meet,  but  one  is  able  to  teach  or  tell  something, 
and  the  other  is  desirous  to  learn  it.  The  lower  are  strongly 
drawn  to  the  higher.  Children  are  not  content  to  be  always 
by  themselves  ;  curiosity,  reverence,  filial  affection  draw  them 
to  their  superiors.  In  the  whole  business  of  life — tillage, 
mechanism,  manufacture,  merchandise — a  younger  generation 
is  connected  with  an  elder,  to  be  taught  bv  it. 

4.  Barbarous  tribes  go  on  forever  in  their  barbarism,  till  they 
are  brought  into  the  presence  of  superior  culture.    The  Chinese 

22 


506  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

exclusion  has  kept  that  people  stationary,  though  civilization 
has  been  knocking  at  their  gates  for  more  than  three  centuries. 
And  it  is  better — I  speak  of  mere  results,  not  principles — that 
the  way  for  light  should  be  opened  into  that  country  by  English 
cannon  balls,  or  the  rending  asunder  of  the  empire,  than  never 
to  be  opened. 

5.  But  such  a  fixed  barrier  to  civilization  is  a  solitary  phe- 
nomenon in  history.  Nations,  the  barbarous  and  civilized,  by 
some  means  or  other,  in  the  everlasting  fer'ruent  of  human 
interests  and  passions,  are  thrown  into  communication  and 
interfusion — if  by  no  better  means,  by  war,  by  subjugation,  by 
capture  :  for  Providence,  if  one  may  say  so,  will  have  them 
come  together.  Human  injustice  and  cruelty  are  not  to  be 
abetted  in  this  matter.  There  are  better  ways,  which  Christian 
civilization  ought  to  learn — travel,  trade,  missions  of  light  and 
mercy  ;  but,  some  way,  the  nations  must  mingle  together,  or  the 
ignorant  will  never  be  enlightened,  the  savage  never  civilized. 

6.  Where  are  the  ruder  peasantry  of  Europe  now  resorting, 
for  work  and  for  subsistence  ?  To  the  heart  of  England  and 
America.  Many  an  enlightened  man,  building  a  railroad,  or 
improving  his  estate,  many  a  refined  woman  in  her  household, 
is  made  their  teacher — little  suspecting  the  office,  perhaps.  It 
were  fortunate,  I  think,  for  both  parties,  if  they  did  ;  it  might 
make  the  relation  more  kindly  and  holy  ;  but  any  way,  the 
work  will  be  done.  How  fine  and  delicate  and  penetrating  is 
this  power  of  man  to  influence  his  kind !  A  word,  a  tone,  a 
look — nothing  (nuth'ing)  goes  to  the,  depths  of  the  soul  like 
that.  The  dexterous  hands,  and  the  embracing  arms,  the  com- 
manding eye  and  the  persuasive  lips  and  the  stately  presence 
are  fitted  for  nothing  more  remarkably  than  to  teach. 

7.  Traveling  on  a  railroad,  one  day,  I  saw  a  little  child  in 
the  company  of  some  half  a  dozen  affectionate  relatives.  From 
hand  to  hand  it  passed — to  be  amused,  to  be  soothed,  to  be 
taught  something  from  moment  to  moment — to  receive  mrny 
lessons,  and  more  caresses,  all  the  day  long.  "  Here,"  I  thought 
with  myself,  "  is  a  company  of  unpaid,  loving,  willing,  unwearied 
teachers.  Such  governesses  could  scarce  be  hired  on  any  terms." 
"Well,  it  was  not  a  nobleman's  child  ;  it  was  not  a  rich  man's 
child,  that  I  know  :  the  same  thing,  substantially,  is  passing  in 
every  house  where  childhood  lives,  every  day. 


SOCIETY    THE    GREAT    EDUCATOR.  5^7 

8.  How  sharp,  too,  and  jealous,  is  the  guardianship  of  society 
over  the  virtue  of  its  members  !  How  preventive  and  corrective 
are  its  sorrow  and  indignation  at  their  failures !  A  parent's 
grief  is  such  a  warning  and  retribution  as  prisons  and  dungeons 
could  not  bring  upon  his  erring  child.  And  then  it  is  to  be 
observed  that  the  grosser  and  mure  ruinous  vices  are  such  as 
soon  betray  themselves,  and  can  not  be  long  concealed.  The 
police  of  society  is  very  likely  to  find  them  out. 

9.  And  selfishness,  covetousness,  vanity,  do  not  escape.  The 
repulsive  atmosphere  of  common  feeling  about  the  seiiish  man, 
the  cold  shadow  in  which  the  miser  walks,  the  stinging  criti- 
cisms upon  the  vain  man,  proclaim  that  society  is  not  an  idle 
censor  What  does  public  opinion  brand,  what  does  literature 
satirize,  all  over  the  world,  but  the  faults  and  foibles  of  men  ? 

10.  Society  has  thrones  for  the  good  and  noble,  and  purple 
and  gold  are  but  rags  and  dust  in  the  comparison.  Society  has 
prisons  and  penitentiaries  for  the  base  and  bad,  and  stone  walls 
and  silent  cells  are  not  so  cold  and  death-like.  Dewey. 

n. 

163.  THE  SCHOOLMASTER  AND  THE  CONQUEROR. 

THERE  is  nothing  (nuth'ing)  which  the  adversaries  of  im- 
provement are  mure  wont  (wimt)  to  make  themselves 
merry  with  than  what  is  termed  the  "march  of  intellect;"  and 
here  I  will  confess,  that  I  think,  as  far  as  the  phrase  goes,  they 
are  in  the  right.  It  is  a  very  absurd,  because  a  very  incorrect 
expression.  It  is  little  calculated  to  describe  the  operation  in 
question.  It  does  not  picture  an  image  at  all  resembling  the 
proceedings  of  the  true  friends  of  mankind.  It  much  more  re- 
sembles the  progress  of  the  enemy  to  all  improvement.  The 
conqueror  moves  in  a  march.  He  stalks  onward  with  the 
"pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  war'' — banners  flying — 
shouts  rending  the  air — guns  thundering — and  martial  music 
pealing,  to  drown  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded,  and  the  lamenta'- 
tions  for  the  slain. 

2.  Not  thus  the  schoolmaster,  in  his  peaceful  vocation.  He 
meditates  and  prepares  in  secret  the  plans  which  are  to  bless 
mankind  ;  he  slowly  gathers  round  him  those  who  are  to  further 
their   execution — he   quietly,   though  firmly,   advances   in   his 


508  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER'. 

humble  path,  laboring  steadily,  but  calmly,  till  he  has  opened  to 
the  light  all  the  recess'es  of  ignorance,  and  torn  up  by  the  roots 
the  weeds  of  vice.  His  is  a  progress  not  to  be  compared  with 
any  thing  like  a  march  ;  but  it  leads  to  a  far  more  brilliant 
triumph,  and  to  laurels  more  imperishable  than  the  destroyer 
of  his  species,  the  scourge  of  the  world,  ever  won. 

3.  Such  men — men  deserving  the  glorious  title  of  Teachers 
of  Mankind — I  have  found,  laboring  conscientiously,  though, 
perhaps,  obscurely,  in  their  blessed  vocation,  wherever  I  have 
gone.  I  have  found  them,  and  shared  their  fellowship,  among 
the  daring,  the  ambitious,  the  ardent,  the  indomitably  active 
French  ;  I  have  found  them  among  the  persevering,  resolute, 
industrious  Swiss  ;  I  have  found  them  among  the  laborious,  the 
warm-hearted,  the  enthusiastic  Germans  ;  I  have  found  them 
among  the  high-minded,  but  enslaved  Italians  (i  tal'yanz) ;  and 
in  our  own  country,  God  be  thanked,  their  number  everywhere 
abound,  and  are  every  day  increasing. 

4.  Their  calling  is  high  and  holy  ;  their  fame  is  the  property 
of  nations  ;  their  renown  will  fill  the  earth  in  after  ages,  in  pro- 
portion as  it  sounds  not  far  off  in  their  own  times.  Each  one  of 
those  great  teachers  of  the  world,  possessing  his  soul  in  peace, 
performs  his  appointed  course  ;  awaits  in  patience  the  fulfill- 
ment of  the  promises  ;  and,  resting  from  his  labors,  bequeaths 
his  memory  to  the  generation  whom  his  works  have  blessed, 
and  sleeps  under  the  humble  but  not  inglorious  epitaph,  com- 
memorating "  one  in  whom  mankind  lost  a  friend,  and  no  man 
got  rid  of  an  enemy."  Brougham. 

Henry  Brougham,  the  distinguished  philanthropist,  orator,  and  statesman, 
was  horn  in  Westmoreland,  England,  in  1779.  He  received  his  preparatory 
education  at  the  high  school  in  Edinburgh,  and  in  1795  entered  the  university, 
where  his  course  was  a  complete  triumph.  He  was  one  of  the  projectors  and 
chief  contributors  of  the  Edinburgh  Review,  and  in  1803  published  "  An  Inquiry 
into  the  Colonial  Policy  of  the  European  Powers,"  which  at  once  called  the 
attention  of  the  public  to  its  author.  After  his  admission  to  the  Scottish  bar,  he 
visited  the  north  of  Europe,  and  on  his  return  commenced  practice  in  the  Court 
of  King's  Bench,  London,  where  he  soon  gained  both  popularity  and  emolument. 
He  first  entered  Parliament  in  1810,  and  here  the  vastness  and  universality  of 
his  acquirements,  his  singular  activity,  and  untiring  energies  rendered  him  very 
serviceable  in  the  promotion  of  reforms.  He  was  elected  Lord  Rector  of  the 
University  of  Glasgow  in  1825,  and  was  president  of  the  "Society  for  the  Dif- 
fusion of  Useful  Knowledge,"  established  in  1827.  He  was  appointed  Lord 
Chancellor  and  elevated  to  the  peerage  in  1830.  Since  1S34  he  has  been  con- 
stantly exerting  his  transcendent  abilities  in  the  House  of  Lords  in  favor  of  all 
measures  that  are  calculated  to  advance  the  best  interests  of  society.    Among 


INTELLECTUAL    POWERS.  509 

hla  most  valuable  works  arc,  "Biography  of  Eminent  Statesmen  and  Men  ol 
Letters  in  the  Reign  of  George  III.,"  3  vols. ;  "A  Discourse  on  Natural  Theo- 
logy," and  an  edition  of  his  Parliamentary  Speeches,  revised  by  himself.  I  lis 
speeches  unquestionably  stand  in  the  very  lirst  rank  of  oratorical  masterpieces. 

in. 

iG4.     INTELLECTUAL    POWER 

IF  wo  pass  in  review  all  the  pursuits  of  mankind,  and  all  the 
ends  they  aim  at  under  the  instigation  of  their  appetites 
and  passions,  or  at  the  dictation  of  shallow  utilitarian  philos'- 
ophy,  we  shall  find  that  they  pursue  shadows  and  worship  idols, 
or  that  whatever  there  is  that  is  good  and  great  and  catholic  in 
their  deeds  and  purposes,  depends  for  its  accomplishment  upon 
the  intellect,  and  is  accomplished  just  in  proportion  as  that  in- 
tellect is  stored  with  knowledge.  And  whether  we  examine  the 
present  or  the  past,  we  shall  find  that  knowledge  alone  is  real 
power — "more  powerful,"  says  Eacon,  "than  the  will,  com- 
manding the  reason,  understanding,  and  belief,"  and  "setting 
up  a  throne  in  the  spirits  and  souls  of  men." 

2.  We  shall  find  that  the  progress  of  knowledge  is  the  only 
true  and  permanent  progress  of  our  race,  and  that  however  in- 
ventions, and  discoveries,  and  events  which  change  the  face  of 
human  affairs,  may  appear  to  be  the  results  of  contemporary 
efforts,  or  providential  accidents,  it  is,  in  fact,  the  men  of  learn- 
ing who  lead  with  noiseless  step  the  vanguard  of  civilization, 
that  mark  out  the  road  over  which — opened  sooner  or  later — 
posterity  marches  ;  and  from  the  abundance  of  their  precious 
stores  sow  seed  by  the  wayside,  which  spring  up  in  due  season 
and  produce  a  hundred  fold  ;  and  cast  bread  upon  the  waters 
which  is  gathered  after  many  days.  The  age  which  gives  birth 
to  the  largest  niunber  of  such  men  is  always  the  most  enlight- 
ened ;  and  the  age  in  which  the  highest  reverence  and  most 
intelligent  obedience  is  accorded  to  them,  always  advances  most 
rapidly  in  the  career  of  improvement. 

3.  And  let  not  the  ambitious  aspirant  to  enrol  himself  with 
this  illustrious  band,  to  fill  the  throne  which  learning  "  setteth 
up  in  the  spirits  and  souls  of  men,"  and  wield  its  absolute 
power,  be  checked,  however  humble  he  may  be,  however  un- 
likely to  attain  wealth  or  office,  or  secure  homage  as  a  practical 
man  or  man  of  action,  by  any  fear  that  true  knowledge  can  be 


510  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

stifled,  overshadowed,  or  compelled  to  involuntary  barrenness. 
Whenever  or  wherever  men  meet  to  deliberate  or  act,  the 
trained  intellect  will  always  master. 

4.  But  for  the  most  sensitive  and  modest,  who  seeks  retire- 
ment, there  is  another  resource.  The  public  press,  accessible 
to  all,  will  enable  him,  from  the  depths  of  solitude,  to  speak 
trumpet-tongued  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth.  No  matter 
how  he  may  be  situated — if  he  has  facts  that  will  bear  scrutiny, 
if  he  has  thoughts  that  burn,  if  he  is  sure  he  has  a  call  to  teach 
— the  press  is  a  tripod  '  from  which  he  may  give  utterance  to 
his  oracles  ;  and  if  there  be  truth  in  them,  the  world  and  future 
ages  will  accept  it. 

5.  It  is  not  commerce  that  is  king,  nor  manufactures,  nor 
cotton,  nor  any  single  art  or  science,  any  more  than  those  who 
wear  the  bauble  crowns.  Knowledge  is  sovereign,2  and  the 
press  is  the  royal  seat  on  which  she  sits,  a  sceptered  monarch. 
From  this  she  rules  public  opinion,  and  finally  gives  laws  alike 
to  prince  and  people, — laws  framed  by  men  of  letters  ;  by  the 
wandering  bard  ;  by  the  philosopher  in  his  grove  or  portico, 
his  tower  or  laboratory  ;  by  the  pale  student  in  his  closet. 

6.  We  contemplate  with  awe  the  mighty  movements  of  the 
last  eighty  years,  and  we  held  our  breath  while  we  gazed  upon 
the  heaving  human  mass  so  lately  struggling,  like  huge  levia- 
than, over  the  broad  face  of  Europe.  What  has  thus  stirred 
the  world  ?  The  press.  The  press,  which  has  scattered  far 
and  wide  the  sparks  of  genius,  kindling  as  they  fly.  Books, 
journals,  pamphlets,  these  are  the  cannon-balls — moulded  often 
by  the  obscure  and  humble,  but  loaded  with  fiery  thoughts — 
which  have  burst  in  the  sides  of  every  structure,  political,  social, 
and  religious,  and  shattered,  too  often,  alike  the  rotten  and  the 
sound.  For  in  knowledge,  as  in  everything  else,  the  two  great 
principles  of  Good  and  Evil  maintain  their  eternal  warfare, — a 
war  amid  and  above  all  other  wars. 

7.  But  in  the  strife  of  knowledge,  unlike  other  contests,  vic- 
tory never  fails  to  abide  with  truth.  And  the  wise  and  vir- 
tuous who  find  and  use  this  mighty  weapon,  are  sure  of  their 

1  TrT  pod,  any  utensil  or  vessel,  the  temple  of  Apollo,  at  Delplii,  sat 

supported  on  three  feet,  as  a  stool,  while  giving  responses  to  those  con- 

a  table,  an  altar,  and  the  like.     On  suiting  the  oracle, 

inch  a  stool  the  Pythian  priest,  in  2  Sovereign  (euV  er  in). 


MORAL    PROGRESS    OF    TIIE    AMERICAN    PEOPLE.      5H 

reward.     It  may  not  come  soon.     Years,  ages,  centuries  may 

pas3  awa}',  and  the  grave-stone  may  have  crumbled  above  tho 

Lead  that  should  have  worn  the  wreath.     But  to  the  eye  of 

faith,  the  vision  of  the  imperishable  and  inevitable  halo  that 

shall  enshrine  the  memory  is  forever  present,  cheering  and 

sweetening  toil,  and  compensating  for  privation.     And  it  often 

happens  that  the  great  and  heroic  mind,  unnoticed  by  the  world, 

buried  apparently  in  profoundest  darkness,  sustained  by  faith, 

works  out  the  grandest  problems  of  human  progress  ;  working 

under  broad  rays  of  brightest  light ;  light  furnished  by  that 

inward  and  immortal  lamp,  which,  when  its  mission  upon  earth 

has  closed,  is  trimmed  anew  by  angels'  hands,  and  placed  among 

the  stars  of  heaven.  Hammond. 

James  Henry  Hammond,  a  statesman  and  a  political  writer  of  distinction,  was 
born  in  Newberry  District,  South  Carolina,  November  15,  1807.  He  graduated 
in  South  Carolina  College,  in  Columbia,  of  whicb  his  fatber  was  president,  in  1S25  • 
was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  1S28;  and  in  1830  became  editor,  at  Columbia,  of  the 
"Southern  Times."  He  retired  from  his  profession,  on  his  marriage  with  lOsa 
Fitzsimmons,  in  1831.  He  was  elected  member  of  Congress,  in  which  body  he 
took  his  seat  in  1S35.  Owing  to  the  failure  of  his  health,  he  resigned  his  seat 
in  Congress  the  following  spring,  and  traveled  a  year  and  a  half  in  Europe.  He 
was,  in  1843,  elected  Governor  of  his  native  State,  in  which  capacity  he  gave 
special  attention  to  the  State  military  organization,  Introducing  the  West  Point 
system  into  several  of  the  academies  and  colleges.  In  1857  he  was  elected  to 
the  U.  S.  Senate,  from  which  he  withdrew  on  the  secession  of  South  Carolina. 
After  the  outbreak  of  hostilities  he  remained  quietly  at  home,  superintending 
the  affairs  of  his  large  estate,  until  declining  health  withdrew  him  from  active 
pursuits.  He  was  an  ardent  supporter  of  Mr.  Calhoun's  views,  advocating  with 
zeal  and  ability  the  doctrine  of  State  Rights.  His  published  speeches  and  essays, 
and  his  elaborate  review  of  the  Life,  Character,  and  Services  of  John  C.  Calhoun, 
severally  display  the  statesman,  and  the  industrious  and  energetic  scholar.  The 
above  extract  is  from  an  Oration  before  the  Literary  Societies  of  S.  C.  College. 
He  died  November  13,  1SGL 

IT. 

165.     MORAL    PROGRESS    OF    THE    AMERICAN    PEOPLE. 

A  KIND  of  reverence  is  paid  by  all  nations  to  antiquity. 
There  is  no  one  that  does  not  trace  its  lineage  from  the 
gods,  or  from  those  who  were  especially  favored  by  the  gods. 
Every  people  has  had  its  ago  of  gold,  or  Augustan  age,  or  heroic 
age — an  age,  alas!  forever  passed.  These  prejudices  are  not 
altogether  unwholesome.  Although  they  produce  a  conviction 
of  declining  virtue,  which  is  unfavorable  to  generous  emulation, 
yet  a  people  at  once  ignorant  and  irrevcrential,  would  necessarily 


512  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

become  licentious.     Nevertheless,  such  prejudices  ought  to  be 
modified. 

2.  It  is  untrue,  that  in  the  period  of  a  nation's  rise  from  dis- 
order to  refinement,  it  is  not  able  to  continually  surpass  itself. 
We  see  the  present,  plainly,  distinctly,  with  all  its  coarse  out- 
lines, its  rough  inequalities,  its  dark  blots,  and  its  glaring  de- 
formities. We  hear  all  its  tumultuous  sounds  and  jarring  dis- 
cords. We  see  and  hear  the  past,  through  a  distance  which  re- 
duces all  its  inequalities  to  a  plane,  mellows  all  its  shades  into  a 
pleasing  hue,  and  subdues  even  its  hoarsest  voices  into  harmony. 

3.  In  our  own  case,  the  prejudice  is  less  erroneous  than  in 
most  others.  The  revolutionary  age  was  truly  a  heroic  one.  Its 
exigencies  called  forth  the  genius,  and  the  talents,  and  the  vir- 
tues of  society,  and  they  ripened  amid  the  hardships  of  a  long 
and  severe  trial.  But  there  were  selfishness,  and  vice,  and  fac- 
tions, then,  as  now,  although  comparatively  subdued  and  re- 
pressed. You  have  only  to  consult  impartial  history,  to  learn 
that  neither  public  faith,  nor  public  loyalty,  nor  private  virtue, 
culminated  at  that  period  in  our  own  country ;  while  a  mere 
glance  at  the  literature,  or  at  the  stage,  or  at  the  politics  of  any 
Europe'an  country,  in  any  previous  age,  reveals  the  fact  that  it 
was  marked,  more  distinctly  than  the  present,  by  licentious 
morals  and  mean  ambition. 

4.  It  is  only  just  to  infer  in  favor  of  the  United  States  an  im- 
provement of  morals  from  their  established  progress  in  knowl- 
edge and  power  ;  otherwise,  the  philosophy  of  society  is  misun- 
derstood, and  we  must  change  all  our  courses,  and  henceforth 
seek  safety  in  imbecility,  and  virtue  in  superstition  and  ignorance. 
What  shall  be  the  test  of  the  national  morals  ?  Shall  it  be  the 
eccentricity  of  crimes  ?  Certainly  not ;  for  then  we  must  com- 
pare the  criminal  eccentricity  of  to-day  with  that  of  yesterday. 
The  result  of  the  comparison  would  be  only  this,  that  the  crimes 
of  society  change  with  changing  circumstances. 

5.  Loyalty  to  the  state  is  a  public  virtue.  Was  it  ever  deeper- 
toned  or  more  universal  than  it  is  now  ?  I  know  there  are  eb- 
ullitions of  passion  and  discontent,  sometimes  breaking  out  into 
disorder  and  violence  ;  but  was  faction  ever  more  effectually 
disarmed  and  harmless  than  it  is  now  ? — There  is  a  loyalty  that 
springs  from  the  affection  that  we  bear  to  our  native  soil.  This 
we  have  as  strong  as  any  people.     But  it  is  not  the  soil  alone, 


MORAL  PROGRESS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE.   51 3 

nor  yet  the  soil  beneath  our  feet  and  the  skies  over  our  heads, 
that  constitute  our  country.  It  is  its  freedom,  equality,  justice, 
greatness,  and  glory.  Who  amoDg  us  is  so  low  as  to  be  insen- 
sible of  an  interest  in  them  ?  Four  hundred  thousand  natives  of 
other  lands  every  year  voluntarily  renounce  their  own  sovereigns, 
and  swear  fealty  to  our  own.  Who  has  ever  known  an  Ameri- 
can to  transfer  his  allegiance  permanently  to  a  foreign  power  ? 

6.  The  spirit  of  the  laws,  in  any  country,  is  a  true  index  to 
the  morals  of  a  people,  just  in  proportion  to  the  power  they 
exercise  in  making  them.  Who  complains  here  or  elsewhere, 
that  crime  or  immorality  blots  our  statute-books  with  licentious 
enactments?  The  character  of  a  country's  magistrates,  legisla- 
tors, and  captains,  chosen  by  a  people,  reflects  their  own.  It  is 
true  that  in  the  earnest  canvassing  which  so  frequently  recurring 
elections  require,  suspicion  often  follows  the  magistrate,  and 
scandal  follows  in  the  footsteps  of  the  statesman.  Yet,  when 
his  course  has  been  finished,  what  magistrate  has  left  a  name 
tarnished  by  corruption,  or  what  statesman  has  left  an  act  or  an 
opinion  so  erroneous  that  decent  charity  can  not  excuse,  though 
it  may  disapprove  ?  What  chieftain  ever  tempered  military  tri- 
umph with  so  much  moderation  as  he  who,  when  he  had  placed 
our  standard  on  the  battlements  of  the  capital  of  Mexico,  not 
only  received  an  offer  of  supreme  authority  from  the  conquered 
nation,  but  declined  it  ? 

7.  The  manners  of  a  nation  are  the  outward  form  of  its  iuner 
life.  Where  is  woman  held  in  so  chivalrous  respect,  and  where 
does  she  deserve  that  eminence  better  ?  Where  is  property 
more  safe,  commercial  honor  better  sustained,  or  human  life 
more  sacred  ?  Moderation  is  a  virtue  in  private  and  in  public 
life.  Has  not  the  great  increase  of  private  wealth  manifested 
itself  chiefly  in  widening  the  circle  of  education  and  elevating 
the  standard  of  popular  intelligence?  With  forces  which,  if 
combined  and  directed  by  ambition,  would  subjugate  this  conti- 
nent at  once,  we  have  made  only  two  very  short  wars — the  one 
confessedly  a  war  of  defence,  and  the  other  ended  by  paying  for 
a  peace  and  for  a  domain  already  fully  conquered. 

8.  Where  lies  the  secret  of  the  increase  of  virtue  which  has 
thus  been  established  ?  I  think  it  will  be  found  in  the  entire 
emancipation  of  the  consciences  of  men  from  either  direct  or 
indirect  control  by  established  ecclesiastical  or  political  systems. 

22* 


514  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Religious  classes,  like  political  parties,  have  been  left  to  compete 
in  the  great  work  of  moral  education,  and  to  entitle  themselves 
to  the  confidence  and  affection  of  society,  by  the  purity  of  their 
faith  and  of  their  morals. 

9.  I  am  well  aware  that  some,  who  may  be  willing  to  adopt 
the  general  conclusions  of  this  argument,  will  object  that  it  is 
not  altogether  sustained  by  the  action  of  the  government  itself, 
however  true  it  may  be  that  it  is  sustained  by  the  great  action 
of  society.  I  can  not  enter  a  field  where  truth  is  to  be  sought 
among  the  disputations  of  passion  and  prejudice.  I  may  say, 
however,  in  reply  first,  that  the  governments  of  the  United 
States,  although  more  perfect  than  any  other,  and  although  they 
embrace  the  great  ideas  of  the  age  more  fully  than  any  other, 
are,  nevertheless,  like  all  other  governments,  founded  on  com- 
promises of  some  abstract  truths  and  of  some  natural  rights. 

10.  As  government  is  impressed  by  its  constitution,  so  it  must 
necessarily  act.  This  may  suffice  to  explain  the  phenomenon 
complained  of.  But  it  is  true,  also,  that  no  government  ever 
did  altogether  act  out,  purely,  and  for  a  long  period,  all  the  vir- 
tues of  its  original  constitution.  Hence  it  is  that  we  are  so  well 
told  by  Bolingbroke,1  that  every  nation  must  perpetually  renew 
its  constitution  or  perish.  Hence,  moreover,  it  is  a  great  excel- 
lence of  our  system,  that  sovereignty  resides,  not  in  Congress  and 
the  President,  nor  yet  in  the  governments  of  the  States,  but  in 
the  people  of  the  United  States.  If  the  sovereign  be  just  and 
firm  and  uncorrupted,  the  governments  can  always  be  brought 
back  from  any  aberrations,  and  even  the  constitutions  themselves, 
if  in  any  degree  imperfect,  can  be  amended.  This  great  idea  of 
the  sovereignty  of  the  people  over  the  government  glimmers  in 
the  British  system,  while  it  fills  our  own  with  a  broad  and  glow- 
ing light.  Seward. 

William  H.  Seward,   son  of  Dr.   Samuel  S.   Seward,   of  Florida,   Orange 
County,  New  York,  was  born  in  that  village  on  the  16th  of  May,  1S01.     lie  en- 

1  Henry  St.  John  Viscount  Bo-  was  elevated  to  the  peerage  in  1712. 

lingbroke,  an  orator,  statesman,  and  Unfortunately,  none  of  the  speeches 

philosophical  essayist,  was  horn  at  delivered  by  him  in   either  house 

Battersea,   in    Surrey,  England,  in  have  been  preserved,  though  they  are 

1672.   He  was  educated  at  Eton  and  reported  to  have  been  very  brilliant. 

Oxford.  St.  John  entered  parliament  He  died  in  1751,  and  a  complete 

in  1701,  and  was  successively  secre-  edition  of  his  works,  in  five  volumes, 

tary  of  war  and  secretary  of  state.  He  appeared  soon  after. 


TO    THE    SKYLARK.  515 

tered  Union  College  in  1816.  After  completing  his  course  with  distinguished 
honor,  he  studied  law  at  New  York  with  John  Anthon,and  afterward  with  John 
Duer  and  Ogden  Hoffman.  Soon  after  his  admission  to  the  bar  he  commenced 
practice  in  Auburn,  New  York,  where  be  married  in  1824.  He  rose  rapidly  to 
distinction  in  his  profession.  In  1838  he  first  took  a  prominent  part  in  politics, 
when  he  labored  for  the  reelection  of  John  Quincy  Adams  to  the  presidency. 
He  became  a  member  of  the  State  Senate  in  1830,  where  he  remained  for  four 
years.  He  made  a  tour  in  Europe,  of  a  few  months,  in  1833,  during  which  he 
wrote  a  series  of  letters,  which  were  published  in  the  "  Albany  Evening  Jour- 
nal." He  was  elected  governor  of  the  State  by  the  whig  party  in  1838 ;  reelected 
in  1840;  but  in  1842,  declining  a  renomiuation,  retired  to  the  practice  of  his 
profession.  He  was  chosen  United  States  senator  in  1849,  by  a  large  majority  ; 
and,  on  the  expiration  of  his  term  in  1855,  he  was  reelected  to  the  same  body. 
When  Mr.  Lincoln  became  president,  Mr.  Seward  was  appointed  secretary  of 
State.  In  1853  an  edition  of  his  works  was  published  in  New  York,  in  three 
octavo  volumes,  containing  his  specehes  in  the  State  and  national  Senate,  and 
before  popular  assemblies,  with  his  messages  as  governor,  his  forensic  argu- 
ments, miscellaneous  addresses,  letters  from  Europe,  and  selections  from  his 
public  correspondence.  His  writings  and  speeches  are  models  of  correct  com- 
position ;  their  grammatical  construction,  rhetorical  finish,  and  accurate  arrange- 
ment, rendering  them  well-nigh  faultless.  Though  not  remarkable  for  oratory, 
his  classic  style,  his  perfect  self-control,  his  truthful  manner,  his  uncommon 
6ensc,  and  his  thorough  knowledge  of  the  leading  questions  of  the  day,  com- 
mand the  attention  and  admiration  of  the  hearer.  The  above  extract  is  from 
his  address  at  Yale  College,  1S54. 


H 


SECTION     XXXII. 

L 

166.     TO    A    SKYLARK. 

AIL  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! — bird  thou  never  wert, — 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it,  pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

2.  Higher  still,  and  higher,  from  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ;  the  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 

And  singing  still  dost  (dust)  soar,  and  soaring  ever,  singtst. 

3.  In  the  golden  lightening  of  the  sunken  sun, 

O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening,  thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

4.  The  pale  purple  even  melts  around  thy  flight  : 
Like  a  star  of  heaven,  in  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 


516  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5.  Keen  are  the  arrows  of  that  silver  sphere, 

Whose  intense  lamp  narrows  in  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

6.  All  the  earth  and  air  with  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare,  from  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

7.  "What  thou  art  we  know  not  :  what  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not  drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

8.  Like  a  poet  hidden  in  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden,  till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not. 

9.  Like  a  high-born  maiden  in  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden  soul  in  secret  hour 

AVith  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower. 

10.  Like  a  glow-worm  golden  in  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden  its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from  the  view. 

11.  Like  a  rose  embowered  in  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered,  till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- winged  thieves. 

12.  Sound  of  vernal  showers  on  the  twinkling  grass, 
Bain-awakened  flowers,  all  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

13.  Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird,  what  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard  praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

14.  Chorus  hymene'al,  or  triumphal  chant, 

Matched  with  thine  would  be  all  but  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

15.  What  objects  are  the  fountains  of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
"What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ?  what  shapes  of  sky 

or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

16.  With  thy  clear  keen  joyance  languor  can  not  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance  never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

17.  Waking  or  asleep,  thou  of  death  must  deem 


TO    THE    SKYLARK.  517 

Things  more  true  and  deep  than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

18.  We  look  before  and  after,  and  pine  for  what  is  not  : 
Our  sincerest  laughter  with  some  pain  is  fraught : 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

19.  Yet  if  we  could  scorn  hate,  and  pride,  and  fear  ; 
If  we  were  things  born  not  to  shed  a  tear, 

I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  could  come  near. 

20.  Better  than  all  measures  of  delight  and  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures  that  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

21.  Teach  me  half  the  gladness  that  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness  from  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listt  ning  now. 

Shelley. 

Percy  Btssiie  Siiei.t.et,  a  poet  of  admirable  genius,  the  son  and  heir  of  a 
wealthy  baronet  in  Sussex,  England,  was  born  in  that  county  in  1702.  He  was 
educated  first  at  Eton,  and  afterward  at  Oxford,  where  he  studied  hard,  but  irreg- 
ularly ;  incessantly  speculated,  thought,  and  read ;  became  entangled  in  meta- 
physical difficulties,  and,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  published,  with  a  direct  appeal 
to  the  heads  of  the  colleges,  a  pamphlet  entitled  "The  Necessity  of  Atheism." 
He  was  immediately  expelled;  and  his  friends  being  disgusted  with  him, he  was 
cast  on  the  world  a  prey  to  the  undisciplined  ardor  of  youth  and  passion.  At 
the  age  of  eighteen  he  printed  his  poem  of  "  Queen  Mab,"  in  which  singular 
poetic  beauties  arc  interspersed  with  many  speculative  absurdities.  Shortly 
after  this  he  married  a  young  woman  of  humble  station  in  life,  which  completed 
his  alienation  from  his  family.  After  a  tour  on  the  continent,  during  which  he 
visited  some  of  the  most  magnificent  scenes  of  Switzerland,  he  settled  near 
Windsor  Forest,  where  he  composed  his  poem,  "  Alastor,  or  the  Spirit  of  Soli- 
tude," which  contains  descriptive  passages  excelled  by  none  of  his  subsequent 
works.  His  domestic  unhappincss  soon  after  induced  him  to  separate  from  his 
wife,  and  the  unhappy  woman  destroyed  herself.  This  event  subjected  him  to 
much  misrepresentation,  and  by  a  decree  of  chancery  he  was  deprived  of  the 
guardianship  of  his  two  children,  on  the  ground  of  immorality  and  atheism. 
Not  long  after  his  wife's  death  he  married  the  daughter  of  Godwin,  authoress 
of  "Frankenstein,"  and  other  novels.  They  resided  for  a  few  months  in  Buck- 
inghamshire, where  they  made  themselves  beloved  by  their  charity  for  the  poor. 
Here  he  composed  the  "Revolt  of  Islam,"  a  poem  still  more  energetic  than 
"Alastor."  In  the  spring  of  1818  he  and  his  family  removed  to  Italy,  where 
they  at  length  settled  themselves  at  Pisa.  In  that  country,  with  health  already 
failing,  Shelley  produced  some  of  his  principal  works,  in  a  period  of  four  years. 
In  July,  1823,  he  was  drowned  in  a  storm  which  he  encountered  in  his  yacht  on 
the  Gulf  of  Spezzia.  In  accordance  with  his  own  desire,  his  body  was  burned, 
under  the  direction  of  Lord  Byron  and  other  friends,  and  the  ashes  were  carried 
to  Rome  and  deposited  in  the  Protestant  burial-ground,  near  those  of  a  child  he 
had  lost  in  that  city.  A  complete  edition  of  "Shelley's  Poetical  Works,"  with 
notes  by  his  widow,  has  been  published.  The  above  ode  to  the  Skylark  bears, 
perhaps,  as  pure  a  poetical  stamp  as  any  of  his  productions. 


518  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

n. 

167.     SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE. 

I.    VOICE    OF   THE   WIND.— Henry  Taylor. 
riH HE  wind,  when  first  he  rose  and  went  abroad 
JL    Through  the  waste  region,  felt  himself  at  fault, 
Wanting  a  voice,  and  suddenly  to  earth 
Descended  with  a  wafture  and  a  swoop, 
Where,  wandering  volatile,  from  kind  to  kind, 
He  wooed  the  several  trees  to  give  him  one. 
First  he  besought  the  ash  ;  the  voice  she  lent 
Fitfully,  with  a  free  and  lashing  change, 
Flung  here  and  there  its  sad  uncertainties  : 
The  aspen  next ;  a  fluttered  frivolous  twitter 
Was  her  sole  tribute  :  from  the  willow  came, 
So  long  as  dainty  summer  dressed  her  out, 
A  whispering  sweetness  ;  but  her  winter  note 
Was  hissing,  dry,  and  reedy  :  lastly  the  pine 
Did  he  solicit ;  and  from  her  he  drew 
A  voice  so  constant,  soft,  and  lowly  deep, 
That  there  he  rested,  welcoming  in  her 
A  mild  memorial  of  the  ocean  cave 
Where  he  was  born. 

II.    MINISTRATIONS    OF    NATURE.— Coleridgb. 

With  other  ministrations  thou,  O  Nature, 

Healest  thy  wandering  and  distempered  child ! 

Thou  pourest  on  him  thy  soft  influences, 

Thy  sunny  hues,  fair  forms,  and  breathing  sweets, 

Thy  melodies  of  woods,  and  winds,  and  waters  ; 

Till  he  relent,  and  can  no  more  endure 

To  be  a  jarring  and  discordant  thing 

Amid  this  general  dance  and  minstrelsy  ; 

But,  bursting  into  tears,  wins  back  his  way, 

His  angry  spirit  healed  and  harmonized 

By  the  benignant  touch  of  love  and  beauty. 

III.    MOONLIGHT.— Shakspeare. 
How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank  ? 
Here  we  will  sit,  and  let  the  sounds  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  :  soft  stillness,  and  the  night, 


SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    VERSE.  519 

Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 
Sit,  Jessica.1     Look  how  the  floor  of  heaven 
Is  thick  inlaid  with  patens '  of  bright  gold. 
There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  beholdest, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings, 
Still  quiring  to  the  young-eyed  chcrubins  : 
Such  harmony  is  in  immortal  souls  ; 
But  wThilo  this  muddy  vesture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  it  in,  we  can  not  hear  it. 

IV.    THE    BELLS    OF   OSTEND.— Bowles. 

No,  I  never,  till  life  and  its  shadows  shall  end, 

Can  forget  the  sweet  sound  of  the  bells  of  Ostend !  * 

The  day  set  in  darkness,  the  wTind  it  blew  loud, 

And  rung  as  it  passed  through  each  murmuring  shroud. 

My  fore/iead  was  wet  with  the  foam  of  the  spray, 

My  heart  sighed  in  secret  for  those  far  away  ; 

When  slowly  the  morning  advanced  from  the  east, 

The  toil  and  the  noise  of  the  tempest  had  ceased  : 

The  peal  from  a  land  I  ne'er  saw7,  seemed  to  say, 

"  Let  the  stranger  forget  every  sorrow  to-day !" 

Yet  the  short-lived  emotion  was  mingled  with  pain — 

I  thought  of  those  eye3  I  should  ne'er  see  again  ; 

I  thought  of  the  kiss,  the  last  kiss  which  I  gave, 

And  a  tear  of  regret  fell  unseen  on  the  wave  ; 

I  thought  of  the  schemes  fond  affection  had  planned, 

Of  the  trees,  of  the  towers,  of  my  own  native  land. 

But  still  the  sweet  sounds,  as  they  swelled  to  the  air, 

Seemed  tidings  of  pleasure,  though  mournful  to  bear, 

And  I  never,  till  life  and  its  shadows  shall  end, 

Can  forget  the  sweet  sound  of  the  bells  of  Ostend ! 

V.    MTSIC. — Shakspeare. 

Do  but  note  a  wild  and  wanton  herd, 

Or  race  of  youthful  and  unhandled  colts, 

Fetching  mad  bounds,  bellowing  and  neighing  loud, 


i  Jessica,  daughter  of  Shy  lock,  in  ■  Os  tend',  a  fortified  seaport  town 

the  "  Merchant  of  Venice."  of  Belgium,  province  of  W.  Flanders, 

2  Pat'  en,  the  plate  or  vessel  on  on  the  N.  Sea.     It  is  neatly  built, 

which    the    consecrated    bread    is  being    a   watering-place  sometimes 

placed  ;  a  plate,  resorted  to  by  the  Belgian  court. 


520  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

"Which  is  the  hot  condition  of  their  blood  ; 

If  they  but  hear  perchance  a  trumpet  sound, 

Or  any  air  of  music  touch  their  ears, 

You  shall  perceive  them  make  a  mutual  stand, 

Their  savage  eyes  turned  to  a  modest  gaze, 

By  the  sweet  power  of  music  :  therefore,  the  poet 

Did  feign  that  Orpheus  drew  trees,  stones,  and  floods  ; 

Since  naught  so  stockish  hard,  and  full  of  rage, 

But  music  for  the  time  doth  change  his  nature. 

The  man  that  hath  no  music  in  himself, 

Nor  is  not  moved  with  concord  of  sweet  sounds, 

Is  fit  for  treason,  stratagems,  and  spoils  ; 

The  motions  of  his  spirit  are  dull  as  night, 

And  his  affections  dark  as  Erebus  : ' 

Let  no  such  man  be  trusted. 

VI.    MUSIC— Shelley. 
My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 
"Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing  ; 
And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 
Beside  the  helm,  conducting  it, 
"While  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 
It  seems  to  float  ever,  forever 
Upon  that  many  winding  river, 
Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 
A  paradise  of  wildernesses ! 

VII.    PASTOKAL    MUSIC— Byron. 
Hark!  the  note, 
The  natural  music  of  the  mountain  reed — 
For  here  the  patriarchal  days  are  not 
A  pastoral  fable — pipes  in  the  liberal  air, 
Mixed  with  the  sweet  bells  of  the  sauntering  herd  : 
My  soul  would  drink  those  echoes.     Oh  that  I  were 
The  viewless  spirit  of  a  lovely  sound, 
A  living  voice,  a  breathing  harmony, 
A  bodiless  enjoyment,  born  and  dying 
"With  the  blest  tone  which  made  me ! 

^  ...  ■  — —  .  — ---        -  .  i  —  _  .  ,_.,,  ,— — ....   — .    I, ,  .  ■ ' 

1  Er/e  bus,  son  of  Chaos,  in  heathen  dark  and  gloomy  space  under  the 
mythology.  The  name  signifies  dark-  earth,  through  which  the  shades  pass 
ness,  and  is  therefore  applied  to  the    into  Hades. 


HYMNS.  521 

m. 

168.     HYMNS. 

THE  discovery  of  a  statue,  a  vase,  or  even  of  a  cameo,  inspires 
art-critics  and  collectors  with  enthusiastic  in'dustrv,  to 
search  whether  it  be  a  copy  or  an  original,  of  what  age,  and  by 
what  artist.  But  I  think  that  a  heart-hymn,  sprung  from  the 
soul's  deepest  life,  and  which  is,  as  it  were,  the  words  of  the 
heart  in  those  hours  of  transfiguration  in  which  it  beholds  God, 
and  heavenly  angels,  is  nobler  by  far  than  any  old  simulacrum,1 
or  carved  ring,  or  heathen  head,  however  ex'quisite  in  lines 
and  feature ! 

2.  To  trace  back  a  hymn  to  its  source,  to  return  upon  the 
path  along  which  it  has  trodden  on  its  mission  of  mercy  through 
generations,  to  witness  its  changes,  its  obscurations  and  reap- 
pearances, is  a  work  of  the  truest  religious  enthusiasm,  and  far 
surpasses  in  importance  the  tracing  of  the  ideas  of  mere  art. 
For  hymns  are  the  expo'nents  of  the  inmost  piety  of  the  Church. 
They  are  crystalline  tears,  or  blossoms  of  joy,  or  holy  prayers, 
or  incarnated  raptures.  They  are  the  jewels  which  the  Church 
has  worn  :  the  pearls,  the  diamonds  and  precious  stones,  formed 
into  amulets  more  potent  against  sorrow  and  sadness  than  the 
most  famous  charms  of  wizard  or  magician.  And  he  who  knows 
the  way  that  hymns  flowed,  knows  where  the  blood  of  piety  ran, 
and  can  trace  its  veins  and  arteries  to  the  very  heart. 

3.  No  other  composition  is  like  an  experimental  hymn.  It  is 
not  a  mere  poetic  impulse.  It  is  not  a  thought,  a  fancy,  a  feel- 
ing threaded  upon  words.  It  is  the  voice  of  experience  speak- 
ing from  the  soul  a  few  words  that  condense  and  of ten  represent 
a  whole  life.  It  is  the  life,  too,  not  of  the  natural  feelings 
growing  wild,  but  of  regenerated  feeling,  inspired  by  God  to  a 
heavenly  destiny,  and  making  its  way  through  troubles  and  hin- 
drances, through  joys  and  victories,  dark  or  light,  sad  or  serene, 
yet  always  struggling  forward.  Forty  years  the  heart  may  have 
been  in  battle,  and  one  verse  shall  express  the  fruit  of  the  whole. 

4.  One  great  hope  may  come  to  fruit  only  at  the  end  of  many 
years,  and  as  the  ripening  of  a  hundred  experiences.  As  there 
be  flowers  that  drink  up  the  dews  of  spring  and  summer,  and 

1  Sim'  u  laN  cram,  the  likeness,  resemblance,  or  representation  of  any- 
thing ;  an  image,  picture,  figure,  effigy,  or  statue. 


522  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

feed  upon  all  the  rains,  and,  only  just  before  the  winter  comes, 
burst  forth  into  bloom,  so  it  is  with  some  of  the  noblest  blossoms 
of  the  soul.  The  bolt  that  prostrated  Saul  gave  him  the  ex- 
ceeding brightness  of  Christ ;  and  so  some  hymns  could  never 
have  been  written  but  for  a  heart-stroke  that  well-nigh  crushed 
out  the  life.  It  is  cleft  in  two  by  bereavement,  and  out  of  the 
rift  comes  forth,  as  by  resurrection,  the  form  and  voice  that  shall 
never  die  out  of  the  world.  Angels  sat  at  the  grave's  mouth  ; 
and  so  hymns  are  the  angels  that  rise  up  out  of  our  griefs  and 
darkness  and  dismay. 

5.  Thus  born,  a  hymn  is  one  of  those  silent  ministers  which 
God  sends  to  those  who  are  to  be  heirs  of  salvation.  It  enters 
into  the  tender  imagination  of  childhood,  and  casts  down  upon 
the  chambers  of  its  thought  a  holy  radiance  which  shall  never 
quite  depart.  It  goes  with  the  Christian,  singing  to  him  all  the 
way,  as  if  it  were  the  airy  voice  of  some  guardian  spirit.  When 
darkness  of  trouble,  settling  fast,  is  shutting  out  every  star,  a 
hymn  bursts  through  and  brings  light  like  a  torch.  It  abides 
by  our  side  in  sickness.  It  goes  forth  with  us  in  joy  to  syllable 
that  joy. 

6.  And  thus,  after  a  time,  we  clothe  a  hymn  with  the  memo- 
ries and  associations  of  our  own  life.  It  is  garlanded  with  flowers 
which  grew  in  our  hearts.  Born  of  the  experience  of  one  mind, 
it  becomes  the  unconscious  record  of  many  minds.  We  sang  it, 
perhaps,  the  morning  that  our  child  died.  We  sang  this  one 
on  that  Sabbath  evening  when,  after  ten  years,  the  family  were 
once  more  all  together.  There  be  hymns  that  were  sung  while 
the  mother  lay  a-dying  ;  that  were  sung  when  the  child,  just 
converted,  was  filling  the  family  with  the  joy  of  Christ  new-born, 
and  laid,  not  now  in  a  manger,  but  in  a  heart.  And  thus  sprung 
from  a  wondrous  life,  they  lead  a  life  yet  more  wonderful.  When 
they  first  come  to  us  they  are  like  the  single  strokes  of  a  bell 
ringing  down  to  us  from  above  ;  but,  at  length,  a  single  hymn 
becomes  a  whole  chime  of  bells,  mingling  and  discoursing  to 
us  the  harmonies  of  a  life's  Christian  experience. 

7.  And  oftentimes,  when  in  the  mountain  country,  far  from 
noise  and  interruption,  we  wrought  upon  these  hymns '  for  our 
vacation  tasks,  we  almost  forgot  the  living  world,  and  were  lifted 
up  by  noble  lyrics  as  upon  mighty  wings,  and  went  back  to  the 

Hymns,  "  Plymouth  Collection  of  Hymns  and  Tunes,"  published  in  1855. 


HYMNS.  523 

days  when  Christ  sang  with  his  disciples,  when  the  disciples 
sang  too,  as  in  our  churches  they  have  almost  ceased  to  do. 
Oh !  but  for  one  moment  even,  to  have  sat  transfixed,  and  to 
have  listened  to  the  hymn  that  Christ  sang  and  to  the  singing ! 
But  the  olive-trees  did  not  hear  his  murmured  notes  more  clearly 
than,  rapt  in  imagination,  we  have  heard  them ! 

8.  There,  too,  are  the  hymns  of  St.  Ambrose  '  and  many 
others,  that  rose  up  like  birds  in  the  early  centuries,  and  have 
come  flying  and  singing  all  the  way  down  to  us.  Their  wing  is 
untired  yet,  nor  is  the  voice  less  sweet  now  than  it  was  a  thou- 
sand years  ago.  Though  they  sometimes  disappeared,  they 
never  sank  ;  but,  as  engineers  for  destruction  send  bombs 
that,  rising  high  up  in  wide  curves,  overleap  great  spaces  and 
drop  down  in  a  distant  spot,  so  God,  in  times  of  darkness, 
seems  to  have  caught  up  these  hymns,  spanning  long  periods 
of  time,  and  letting  them  fall  at  distant  eras,  not  for  explosion 
and  wounding,  but  for  healing  and  consolation. 

9.  There  are  crusaders'  hymns,  that  rolled  forth  their  truths 
upon  the  oriental  air,  while  a  thousand  horses'  hoofs  kept  time 
below,  and  ten  thousand  palm-leaves  whispered  and  kept  time 
above !  Other  hymns,  fulfilling  the  promise  of  God  that  His 
saints  should  mount  up  with  wings  as  eagles,  have  borne  up  the 
sorrows,  the  desires,  and  the  aspirations  of  the  poor,  the  op- 
pressed, and  the  persecuted,  of  Huguenots,  of  Covenanters,  and 
of  Puritans,  and  winged  them  to  the  bosom  of  God. 

10.  In  our  own  time,  and  in  the  familiar  experiences  of  daily 
life,  how  are  hymns  mossed  over  and  vine-clad  with  domestic 
associations !  One  hymn  hath  opened  the  morning  in  ten  thou- 
sand families,  and  dear  children  with  sweet  voices  have  charmed 
the  evening  in  a  thousand  places  with  the  utterance  of  another. 
Nor  do  I  know  of  any  steps  now  left  on  earth  by  which  one  may 

1  St.  Ambrose,  a  celebrated  Chris-  much  influence,  that  after  the  mas- 

tian  father,  was  probably  born  at  sacreof  Thessalonica  in  39,  he  refused 

Treves,  in  340.     After  a  careful  edu-  the    Emperor    Theodosius    to    the 

cation  at  Rome,  he  practiced  with  Church  of  Milan  for  a  period  of  eight 

greatsuccess,asanadvocate,at  Milan ;  months,  and  then  caused  him  to  per- 

and  about  370  was  appointed  prefect  form   a  public   penance.      Ambrose 

of  the  provinces  of  Liguria  and. Emi-  was  a  man  of  eloquence,  firmness, 

lia,  whose  seat  of  government  was  and  ability.     The  best  edition  of  his 

Milan.     He  was  appointed  Bishop  of  works  is  that  of  the  Benedictines. 

Milan  in  374 ;  and  finally  acquired  ro  »  Bombs,  (bumz). 


524  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

so  soon  rise  above  trouble  or  weariness  as  the  verses  of  a  hymn 
and  the  notes  of  a  tune.  And  if  the  angels,  that  Jacob  saw, 
sang  when  they  appeared,  then  I  know  that  the  ladder  which 
he  beheld  was  but  the  scale  of  divine  music  let  down  from 
heaven  to  earth.  H.  W.  Beeches. 

IV. 

169.     THE    PASSIONS. 

WHEN  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  6ft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, — 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, — 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting  ; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined : 
Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Filled  wim  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound  ; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each — for  Madness  ruled  the  hour — 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

2.  First  Fear,  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid  ; 
And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 

E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. — 
Next  Anger  rushed — his  eyes  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings  : 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept,  with  hurried  hands,  the  strings. — 
With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair — 

Low  sullen  sounds ! — his  grief  beguiled  ; 
A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air  ; 

'Twas  sad,  by  fits — by  starts,  'twas  wild. 

3.  But  thou,  O  Hope  !  with  eyes  so  fair — 

What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 


THE    PASSIONS.  525 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  bail  I 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And,  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 

She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  her  song  ; 

And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 

A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 
And  Hofe,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair. 

4.  And  longer  had  she  sung — but,  with  a  frown, 

Revenge  impatient  rose. 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sttford  in  thunder  down  ; 
And,  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took, 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 

"Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woes  ; 
And  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat  ; 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 
Dejected  Pitt,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien  ; 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his  head. 

5.  Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed — 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state ! 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed  ; 

And  now  it  courted  Love — now,  raving,  called  on  Hate.— 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired  ; 

And,  from  her  wild,  sequestered  seat, 

In  notes,  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around, 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound  ; 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole  ; 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  streams,  with  fond  delay, — 

Round  a  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, — 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

6.  But,  oh  I  how  altered  was  its  sprightlier  tone, 

When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 


52G  NATIONAL  FIFTH    READER. 

Iler  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew, 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, — 
The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known ! 

The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste  -eyed  queen, 
Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen, 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 
Brown  Exekctse  rejoiced  to  hear  ; 
And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

7.       Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial : — 

He,  with  viny  crown,  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed  ; 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 

They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain, 

Tney  saw  in  Tempe's '  vale  her  native  maids, 

Amid  the  festal-sounding  shades, 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing  ; 

"While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round — 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound— 

And  he,  amid  his  frolic  play, 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 

Shook  thousand  odors  from  his  dewy  wings.        Collins. 

"William  Collins,  one  of  the  most  interesting  and  exquisite  of  English  poets, 
was  born  at  Chichester  on  Christmas-day,  1720.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester, 
and  Magdalen  College,  Oxford.  Before  leaving  college  he  published  the  "  Orien- 
tal Eclogues,"  which,  to  the  disgrace  of  the  university  and  the  literary  public, 
were  wholly  neglected.  In  1744  he  came  to  London  as  a  literary  adventurer, 
and  about  two  years  later  published  his  "Odes,"  and  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  held  him  in  the  highest  esteem.  His  life  in  the  metropolis 
was  irregular,  and,  until  the  death  of  an  uncle,  who  left  him  a  legacy  of  £2000, 
was  one  of  continual  hardship.  On  the  receipt  of  this  little  fortune,  he  repaid 
Miller,  the  bookseller,  the  loss  sustained  by  the  publication  of  his  neglected 
"Odes,"  which  were  afterward  destined  to  become  immortal.  Unhappily,  the 
seeds  of  disease  and  occasional  insanity  had  been  too  deeply  sown  in  his  former 
poverty  to  be  eradicated,  and  after  a  short  sojourn  in  France,  he  passed  through 
the  doors  of  a  lunatic  asylum  to  his  early  home,  where,  in  care  of  his  sister,  he 
died,  in  1750,  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-six.  His  appearance  was  manly,  his  con- 
versation elegant,  his  views  extensive,  his  disposition  cheerful,  and  his  morals 

1  Tempe,  (tern'  pa),  a  valley  of  Eu-  pus  on  the  N.,  and  Ossa  on  the  S. 
ropean  Turkey,  in  the  N.  E.  of  Thes-  The  beauties  of  its  scenery  are  much. 
Baly,between  the  mountains  of  Oly in-     celebrated  by  ancient  writers. 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST.  527 

pure.  He  was  a  man  of  extensive  literature,  and  of  vigorous  faculties.  The 
"  Oriental  Eclogues"  are  written  in  a  clear,  correct  style,  and  they  charm  by  their 
figurative  language  and  descriptions,  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of  their  dialogues 
and  sentiments,  and  their  musical  versification.  No  poet  has  been  more  happy 
in  the  use  of  metaphors  and  personification.  Collins'  "Odes"  arc  unsurpassed 
by  any  thing  of  the  same  species  of  composition  in  the  English  language,  and 
that  to  the  "Passions"  is  a  perfect  master-piece  of  poetical  description. 

V. 

170.     ALEXANDER'S    FEAST. 

TT^WAS  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
JL         By  Philip's  warlike  son  : 
Aloft,  in  awful  state, 
The  godlike  hero  sate, 

On  his  imperial  throne. 
His  valiant  r>eers  were  placed  around 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound  ; 

So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowned. 
The  lovely  Thais '  by  his  side 
Sat,  like  an  eastern  blooming  bride, 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride. 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 

None  (nun)  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave, 
None  but  the  brave,  deserves  the  fair. 

2.  Timotheiis,  placed  on  high 

Amid  the  tuneful  choir, 

"With  flying  Angers  touched  the  lyre  : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky, 

And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove, 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above — 
Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love  ! 
A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  : 
Sublime  on  radiant  spheres  he  rode, 

^ha'is,   a  celebrated   beauty  of  palace  of  the  Persian  kings.    On  the 

Athens,  an  attendant  of  Alexander,  death  of  the  conqueror,  she  married 

who  gained  such  influence  over  him,  Ptolemy,  king  of  Egypt,  one  of  Alex- 

as  to  cause  him,  during  a  great  fes-  ander's  generals.     She  is  sometimes 

tival  at  Persepolis,  to  set  fire  to  the  called  Menandria. 


528  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 


When  he  to  fair  Olympia '  pressed, 
And  stampt  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the  world. 
The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound  ; 
"A  present  deity!"  they  shout  around  ; 
"  A  present  deity !"  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  : 

With  ravished  ears 

The  monarch  hears, 

Assumes  the  god, 

Affects  to  nod, 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

3.  The  praise  of  Bacchus,2  then,  the  sweet  musician  sung, — 
Of  Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  ever  young ! 

The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ! 

Sound  the  trumpet !  beat  the  drums  ! 

Flushed  with  a  purple  grace, 

He  shows  his  honest  face. 
Now  give  the  hautboys  breath ! — he  comes  !  he  comes  1 

Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 

Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  : 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure  ; 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  : 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure  ; 

Sweet  is  pleasure,  after  pain ! 

4.  Soothed  with  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain  ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again  ; 

And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew  the  slain, 
The  master  saw  the  madness  rise  ; 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes ! 
And,  while  he  heaven  and  earth  defied, 
Changed  his  hand  and  checked  his  pride. 

He  chose  a  mournful  muse, 
Soft  pity  to  infuse  : 
He  sung  Darius,3  great  and  good, 

'Olympia  (ollm'pia),    or  Juno,  ■  Da  ri'  us  III.,  sometimes   called 

the  sister  and  wife  of  Jupiter.  Codomannus,    in  whose   defeat  by 

1  Bac'  chus,  or   rather   Dionysus,  Alexander  the    Great    the   Persian 

the  beautiful,  but  effeminate  god  of  empire  was  consummated,  succeeded 

wine,  in  mythology,  represented  as  to  the  throne  b.  c.  336,   and  was 

crowned  with  vine  leaves.  killed  330. 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST.  52'J 

By  too  severe  a  fate, 

Fallen!  fallen!  fallen  !  fallen  I— 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate. 
And  weltering  in  his  blood  ! 
Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 
By  those  his  former  bounty  fed, 
On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies, 
With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

"With  downcast  look  the  joyous  victor  sate, 

Revolving,  in  his  altered  soul, 
The  various  turns  of  fate  below  ; 

And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 
And  tears  began  to  flow. 

5.  The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree  : 
'Twas  but  a  kindred  strain  to  move  ; 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 

Softly  sweet,  in  Lvdian  '  measures, 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures  : 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble  ; 
Honor  but  an  empty  bubble  ; 

Never  ending,  still  beginning, 

Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying  : 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 

Think,  oh  think  it  worth  enjoying ! 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee  ; 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee. 
The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause  : 
So  love  was  crowned  ;  but  music  won  the  cause. 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sighed  and  looked,  sighed  and  looked, 
Sighed  and  looked;  and  sighed  again  : 
At  length,  with  love  and  wine  at  once  oppressed, 
The  vanquished  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

1  Lyd'ian,  pertaining  to  Lydia,  said  especially  of  one  of  the  ancient 
a  country  of  Asia  Minor,  or  to  its  in-  Greek  modes  or  keys,  the  music  in 
habitants  :  hence,  soft;  effeminate  ; —     which  was  soft  and  pathetic. 


530  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER 

6.  Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again — 

A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain  I 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder, 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thunder. 
Hark  !  hark  ! — the  horrid  sound 
Has  raised  up  his  head  ! 
As  awaked  from  the  dead, 
And  amazed,  he  stares  around. 
Revenge  !  revenge  !  Timotheiis  cries — 
See  the  furies  arise  ! 
See  the  snakes  that  they  rear, 
How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 
And  the  sparkles  that  flash  from  their  eyes ! 

7.  Behold  a  ghastly  band, 
Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain, 
And  unburied  remain, 
Inglorious,  on  the  plain. 
Give  the  vengeance  due 
To  the  valiant  crew. 
Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high ! 
How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes, 
And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods ! 
The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy  ; 
And  the  king  seized  a  flambeau,  with  zeal  to  destroy  : 
Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey  ; 
And,  like  another  Helen,1  fired  another  Troy. 

8.  Thus  long  ago, — 

Ere  heaving  bellows1  learned  to  blow, 
"While  organs  yet  were  mute, — 
Timotheiis  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre, 
Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 

1  Helen,  a  most  beautiful  woman  elaus,  who,  with   the   other   Greek 

of  ancient  Greece,  whom  Paris,  the  chiefs,  resolved  to  avenge  her  abduo 

son   of  Priam,  king  of  Troy,  stole  tion.     Hence  rose  the  Trojan  war. 
from  the  arms  of  her  husband,  Men-        2  Bellows,  (bel'  lus). 


ALEXANDER'S    FEAST.  531 

At  last,  divine  Cecilia 5  came, 

Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  : 
The  sweet  enthusiast,  from  her  sacred  store, 

Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 

And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  nature's  mother  wit,  and  arts  unknown  before. 

Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize, 
Or  both  divide  the  crown  : 

He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies  ; 

She  drew  an  angel  down.  Dryden. 

John  Dkyden,  one  of  the  great  masters  of  English  verse,  was  born  at  Old- 
winckle,  in  Northamptonshire,  August,  1631.  He  was  educated  at  Westminster 
and  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  He  began  his  literary  career  by  a  set  of  heroic 
stanzas  on  the  death  of  Cromwell,  which  was  a  good  precursor  of  his  future 
excellence.  The  Restoration  occurring  when  he  was  in  his  thirtieth  year,  ex- 
eluded  him  for  the  time  from  government  employment  and  patronage,  and  he 
at  once  devoted  himself  to  literature  for  a  profession.  The  stage  now  offered 
itself  as  the  only  means  through  which  his  pen  could  furnish  a  livelihood ;  and, 
in  the  course  of  twenty-five  years,  he  wrote  twenty-seven  dramas,  the  most  re- 
markable of  which  are  his  "Heroic  Plays."  From  these  rhymed  dialogues 
arose  that  mastery  of  the  English  heroic  couplet  which  he  was  the  first  to  ac- 
quire, and  in  which  no  succeeding  poet  has  nearly  equaled  hi  in.  The  prefaces, 
dedications,  and  essays,  with  which  he  accompanied  his  dramas,  exhibit  him 
at  once  as  the  earliest  writer  of  regular  and  elegant  English  prose,  and  as  the 
first  who  aimed  in  our  language  at  any  thing  like  philosophical  criticism.  These 
prose  fragments  contain  some  of  the  most  felicitous  specimens  of  style  which  our 
tongue  has  ever  produced.  His  engagement  to  write  plays  for  the  King's  The- 
ater gave  him  £300  a  year :  his  circumstances  were  improved  by  his  marriage, 
in  1665,  with  Lady  Elizabeth  Howard,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Berkshire  ;  and  in 
1670  he  received,  with  a  salary  of  £200  a  year  and  the  famous  butt  of  wine,  the 
joint  offices  of  historiographer-royal  and  poet-laureate.  "Absalom  and  Achito- 
phel,"  the  best  of  all  his  political  satires,  appeared  in  1681.  "The  Medal"  and 
"Mac  Flecknoe,"  works  of  the  same  kind,  followed  soon  after.  Inl6S5,  Dryden 
was  received  into  the  Church  of  Rome,  the  first  public  fruit  of  which  was  the 
"  Hind  and  Panther,"  a  rich  allegorical  poem,  in  which  the  main  arguments  of 
the  Roman  Church  are  stated.  The  Revolution,  taking  place  in  his  fifty-seventh 
year,  deprived  the  poet  of  his  courtly  patrons  and  pensions,  and  forced  him  to 
spend  the  last  twelve  years  of  his  life  in  hard  toil.  Some  of  his  best  works  weie 
produced  in  this  period.  In  1690  appeared  his  tragedy  of  "  Dou  Sebastian,"  the 
best  of  his  serious  plays.  In  1697  he  threw  off  at  a  heat  his  "  Alexander's  Feast," 
one  of  the  most  animated  of  all  lyrical  poems;  and  his  spirited  translation  of 
Virgil  appeared  the  same  year.  Lastly,  in  the  spring  of  1700,  were  published 
his  "  Fables,"  which  prove  that  his  warm  imagination  then  burned  as  brightly 

8  Cecilia,  the  patron  saint  of  mu-  and    depicted  on    canvas  by  more 

sic,  erroneously  regarded  as  the  in-  than  one  of  the  great  painters.     Ra- 

ventress  of  the  organ,  suffered  mar-  phael  has  most  admirably  presented 

tyrdom  A.  D.  220.      She   has  been  her  as  the  personification  of  heavenly 

celebrated  by  several  of  the  poets,  devotion. 


532  NATIONAL    FIFJTH    READER. 

as  ever,  and  that  his  metrical  skill  increased  at  the  close  of  his  life.  These  ad- 
mirable poems  shed  a  glory  on  the  last  days  of  the  poet,  who  died  on  the  1st  of 
May,  1700.  For  an  extended  description  of  Dryden's  poetical  endowments,  the 
reader  is  referred  to  the  66th  Exercise,  p.  243. 


SECTION    XXXIII. 

I. 

171.     HAMLET'S    SOLILOQUY. 

TO  be — or  not  to  be — that  is  the  question  ! 
Whether  'tis  nobler  in  the  mind,  to  suffer 
The  slings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune  ; 
Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 
And,  by  opposing,  end  them.     To  die — to  sleep  ; — 
No  more  ?  and,  by  a  sleep,  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache,  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to  ?     'Tis  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished !     To  die — to  sleep  : 
To  sleep  !  perchance  to  dream  !     Ay  ;  there's  the  rub  ; 
For,  in  that  sleep  of  death,  what  dreams  may  come, 
"When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  ! 

2.  There's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life  ; 

For  who  would  bear  the  whips  and  scorns  of  time, 

The  oppressor's  wrong,  the  proud  man's  con'tumely, 

The  pangs  of  despised  love,  the  law's  delay, 

The  insolence  of  office,  and  the  spurns 

That  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes, 

When  he  himself  might  his  quietus  make 

With  a  bare  bodkin  ? 

3.  Who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  groan  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life  ; 

But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, — 
That  undiscovered  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveler  returns, — puzzles  the  will 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have, 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of? 


CATO'S    SOLILOQUY.  533 

4.  Thus  conscience  does  make  cowards  of  us  all  ; 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  resolution 
Is  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought ; 
And  enterprises  of  great  pith  and  moment, 
With  this  regard,  their  currents  turn  awry, 
And  lose  the  name  of  action.  Shakspeare* 

n. 

172.     CATO'S1    SOLILOQUY. 

IT  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reasonest  well ! 
Else,  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 
This  longing  after  immortality  ? 
Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward  horror, 
Of  falling  into  naught  ?     AVhy  shrinks  the  soul 
Back  on  hersolf,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 
'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ; 
'Tis  Heaven  itself,  that  points  out  a  hereafter, 
And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

2.  Eternity ! — thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 
Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 
Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass  ! 
The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me  ; 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 
Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  Power  above  us, — 
And  that  there  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works, — He  must  delight  in  virtue  ; 
And  that  which  He  delights  in  must  be  happy. 

i  Marcus  Porcius  Cato,  great-  of  the  republican  party  were  finally 
grandson  of  Cato  the  Censor,  -was  extinguished  by  the  battle  of  Thap- 
born  B.  C  95.  From  his  youth  he  bus,  April  6th,  B.  C.  46.  Failing  to 
-was  celebrated  for  his  bravery,  vir-  inspire  his  countrymen,  who  were 
tue,  decision, severity,  and  harshness  collected  at  Utica,  with  courage  to 
of  character.  He  was  the  principal  endure  a  siege,  he  resolved  not  to 
supporter  of  Cicero  in  his  measures  outlive  the  downfall  of  the  republic, 
for  suppressing  the  Catilinerian  con-  After  providing  for  the  safety  of  his 
spiracy ;  and  on  the  commencement  friends,  and  spending  the  greater 
of  civil  war,  in  B.  C.  40,  he  joined  part  of  the  night  in  perusing  Plato's 
the  party  of  Pompey  against  Caesar.  Phanlo,  he  inflicted  on  himself  the 
After  the  defeat  of  the  former,  Cato  wound  of  which  he  died,  in  the  forty- 
proceeded  to  Africa,  where  the  hopes  ninth  year  of  his  age. 


534  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

But  when  ?  or  where  ?     This  world  was  made  for  Caesar. 
I'm  weary  of  conjectures, — this  must  end  them. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

3.  Thus  am  I  doubly  armed.     My  death  '  and  life, 
My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me. 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  my  end  ; 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secure  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years  ; 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amid  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds.      Addisow. 

Joseph  Addison,  the  eldest  son  of  an  able  and  learned  clergyman,  was  born 
at  his  father's  rectory  of  Milston,  in  Wiltshire,  England,  on  the  first  day  of  May, 
1672.  He  was  educated  chiefly  at  the  Charter-house  and  at  Oxford,  and  distin- 
guished himself  as  a  writer  of  Latin  verse.  He  took  his  master's  degree  in  1693, 
and  held  a  fellowship  from  1699  to  1711.  He  first  appeared  in  print  by  contribu- 
ting English  verses,  some  of  which  are  original,  and  others  translations  from  the 
classics,  to  Dryden's  Miscellanies.  Political  encouragement  from  the  whig 
party,  soon  after  induced  him  to  write  a  poem  complimenting  King  William  on 
the  campaign  in  which  he  took  Namur.  A  pension,  procured  for  him  by  Lord 
Somers,  enabled  him,  in  1699,  to  visit  the  Continent,  where  he  resided  for  three 
years.  The  best  of  his  poems,  a  "  Letter  from  Italy,"  was  written  in  1701,  while 
he  was  still  abroad  ;  and  his  "  Travels  in  Italy,"  his  first  extended  prose  work, 
exhibited  his  extensive  knowledge,  and  his  skill  and  liveliness  in  composition. 
Soon  after  his  return  to  England  he  wrote  "  The  Campaign,"  a  poem  celebrating 
Marlborough's  victory  at  Blenheim,  which,  receiving  extraordinary  applause, 
secured  him  an  appointment,  in  1704,  as  one  of  the  commissioners  of  appeal  in 
excise.  He  became  an  under  secretary  of  state  in  1706,  and  secretary  to  the 
lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland  in  1709,  about  a  year  and  a  half  before  the  dismissal 
of  the  ministry  which  he  served.  From  the  autumn  of  1710  till  the  end  of  171-1, 
four  of  the  best  years  of  his  life,  the  opposition  having  deprived  him  of  office, 
Addison's  principal  employment  was  the  composition  of  his  celebrated  Periodical 
Essays.  In  1709  he  began  to  furnish  papers  for  the  "  Tattler,"  a  periodical  con- 
ducted by  his  schoolfellow  and  friend,  Richard  Steele,  writing,  in  all,  more 
than  sixty  of  the  two  hundred  and  seventy-one  essays  which  the  work  contained. 
On  the  first  day  of  March,  1711,  these  two  writers  commenced  the  "Spectator," 
which  appeared  every  week-day  till  the  6th  day  of  December,  1712.  The  two 
contributing  almost  equally,  seem  together  to  have  written  not  very  much  less 
than  five  hundred  of  the  papers.  On  the  cessation  of  the  "  Spectator,"  Steele 
set  on  foot  the  "  Guardian,"  which,  started  in  March,  1713,  came  to  an  end  in 
October,  with  its  one  hundred  and  seventy-fifth  number,  fifty-three  of  the  papers 


1  Death,  bane,  and  the  first  this,  refer  to  his  sword  ;  and  life  antidote 
and  the  second  this,  to  the  book  lie  held  in  his  hand. 


SELECT  PASSAGES  IN  PROSE.  535 

being  Addison's.  In  point  of  style  the  two  friends  resembled  each  other  very 
closely,  when  dealing  with  familiar  objects;  but,  in  the  higher  tones  of  thought 
and  composition,  Addison  showed  a  mastery  of  language  raising  him  very  de- 
cisively, not  above  Steele  only,  but  above  all  his  contemporaries.  In  April, 
1713,  he  brought  on  the  stage  his  tragedy  of  "  Cato,"  which  was  rendered  so  im- 
mensely popular,  partly  through  political  considerations,  as  to  raise  the  reputa- 
tion of  the  author  to  its  highest  point.  The  accession  of  George  I.  occurring  in 
the  latter  part  of  1714,  restored  the  whigs  to  power,  and  thus  again  diverted  Ad- 
dison from  literature  to  politics.  After  acting  as  secretary  to  the  regency,  he 
was  made  one  of  the  lords  of  trade  early  in  1715.  Owing,  it  is  said,  to  the  influ- 
ence of  his  wife,  the  Countess-dowager  of  Warwick,  whom  he  had  married  a 
few  months  before,  he  was  induced  to  become  one  of  the  two  principal  secre- 
taries of  state  in  1717;  but  ill  health  caused  him  to  resign,  eleven  months  after 
his  appointment,  from  which  period  he  received  a  pension  of  £1500  a  year,  lie 
died  at  Holland  House,  on  the  17th  of  June,  1719.  His  body,  after  lying  in  state, 
was  interred  in  the  poet's  corner  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

m. 

173     SELECT    PASSAGES    IN    PROSE. 
I.    EVIDENCE    OF    A    CREATOR.— Tillotson.' 
OW  often  might  a  man,  after  he  had  jumbled  a  set  of 


H 


letters  in  a  bag,  fling  them  out  upon  the  ground  before 
they  would  fall  into  an  exact  poem,  yea,  or  so  much  as  make  a 
good  discourse  in  prose !  And  may  not  a  little  book  be  as 
easily  made  by  chance,  as  this  great  volume  of  the  world  ? — 
How  long  might  a  man  be  in  sprinkling  colors  upon  a  canvas 
with  a  careless  hand,  before  they  could  happen  to  make  the 
exact  picture  of  a  man  !  And  is  a  man  easier  made  by  chance 
than  this  picture  ? — How  long  might  twenty  thousand  blind 
men,  which  should  be  sent  out  from  the  several  remote  parts 
of  England,  wander  up  and  down  before  they  would  all  meet 
upon  Salisbury  Plains,  and  fall  into  rank  and  file  in  the  exact 
order  of  an  army !  And  yet  this  is  much  more  easy  to  be 
imagined,  than  how  the  innumerable  blind  parts  of  matter 
should  rendezvous3  themselves  into  a  world.3 


1  John  Tillotson,  a  distinguished  of  Canterbury.     Died  in  169-4.     His 

prelate  of  the  English  Church,  was  sermons,  his  principal  compositions, 

born  in  Sowerby,  Yorkshire,  in  1630.  were,  for  half  a  century,  more  read 

He  was  educated  at  Clare  Hall  Col-  than  any  in  our  language, 

lege,  Cambridge.  Soon  after  leaving  2  Rendezvous  (r£n'de  v6),  toassem- 

that  institution,  he  rose  to  distinc-  ble,  or  meet  at  a  particular  place,  as 

tion  as  a  preacher,  and  preferments  troops,  ships,  &c. ;  to  bring  together 

flowed  upon  him  in  rapid  succession,  at  a  certain  place, 

till  in  1690  he  became  Archbishop  ■  World,  (we'rld). 


536  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

II.    NATURE   PROCLAIMS   A   DEITY.— Chateaubriand.* 

There  is  a  God  !  The  herbs  of  the  valley,  the  cedars  of  the 
mountain,  bless  him  ;  the  insect  sports  in  his  beam  ;  the  bird 
sings  him  in  the  foliage  ;  the  thunder  proclaims  him  in  the 
heavens ;  the  ocean  declares  his  immensity ; — man  alone  has 
said,  There  is  no  God  !  Unite  in  thought  at  the  same  instant 
the  most  beautiful  objects  in  nature.  Suppose  that  you  see,  at 
once,  all  the  hours  of  the  day,  and  all  the  seasons  of  the  year, 
— a  morning  of  spring,  and  a  morning  of  autumn — a  night  be- 
spangled with  stars,  and  a  night  darkened  by  clouds — meadows 
enameled  with  flowers — forests  hoary  with  snow — fields  gilded 
by  the  tints  of  autumn, — then  alone  you  will  have  a  just  con- 
ception of  the  universe ! 

While  you  are  gazing  on  that  sun  which  is  plunging  into  the 
vault  of  the  West,  another  observer  admires  him  emerging  from 
the  gilded  gates  of  the  East.  By  what  inconceivable  power  does 
that  aged  star,  which  is  sinking  fatigued  and  burning  in  the 
shades  of  the  evening,  reappear  at  the  same  instant  fresh  and 
humid  with  the  rosy  dew  of  the  morning  ?  At  every  hour  of 
the  day,  the  glorious  orb  is  at  once  rising,  resplendent  as  noon- 
day, and  setting  in  the  west ;  or,  rather,  our  senses  deceive  us, 
and  there  is,  properly  speaking,  no  East  or  West,  no  North  or 
South,  in  the  world. 

III.    THE    UNBELIEVER.— Chalmers. 

I  pity  the  unbeliever — one  who  can  gaze  upon  the  grandeur, 
and  glory,  and  beauty  of  the  natural  universe,  and  behold  not 
the  touches  of  His  finger,  who  is  over,  and  with,  and  above  all  ; 
from  my  very  heart  I  do  commiserate  his  condition.  The  un- 
believer ! — one  whose  intellect  the  light  of  revelation  never 
penetrated ;  who  can  gaze  upon  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  stars, 
and  upon  the  unfading  and  imperishable  skj',  spread  out  so  mag- 
nificently above  him,  and  say  all  this  is  the  work  of  chance  ! 

The  heart  of  such  a  being  is  a  drear  and  cheerless  void.  In 
him,  mind — the  god-like  gift  of  intellect — is  debased,  destroyed  ; 
all  is  dark — a  fearful  chaotic  labyrinth,  rayless,  cheerless,  hope- 
less !  No  gleam  of  light  from  heaven  penetrates  the  blackness 
of  the  horrible  delusion  ;  no  voice  from  the  Eternal  bids  the 

1  Chateaubriand,  (sh&  to  bre  fin"),  Christianity,"  was  born  in  Brittany, 
a  noted  French  writer  and  states-  in  17(>i>,  and  died  in  Paris,  in  1848, 
man,    author  of    the    "  Genius    of     at  nearly  the  close  of  bis  80th  year. 


INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY  537 

desponding  heart  rejoice.  No  fancied  tones  from  the  harps  of 
seraphim  arouse  the  dull  spirit  from  its  lethargy,  or  allay  the  con- 
suming fever  of  the  brain.  The  wreck  of  mind  is  utterly  rem'edi- 
less  ;  reason  is  prostrate  ;  and  passion,  prejudice,  and  supersti- 
tion, have  reared  their  temple  on  the  ruins  of  his  intellect. 

I  pity  the  unbeliever.  "What  to  him  is  the  revelation  from 
on  high  but  a  sealed  book  ?  He  sees  nothing  above,  or  around, 
or  beneath  him,  that  evinces  the  exist  once  of  a  God  ;  and  he  de- 
nies— yea,  while  standing  on  the  footstool  of  Omnipotence,  and 
gazing  upon  the  dazzling  throne  of  Jehovah,  he  shuts  his  intel- 
lect to  the  light  of  reason,  and  denies  there  is  a  God. 

IV.     BLESSINGS    OF    RELIGIOUS    FAITH.— Davy.' 

I  envy  no  quality  of  the  mind  or  intellect  in  others — not 
genius,  power,  wit,  or  fancy  ;  but  if  I  could  choose  what  would 
be  most  delightful,  and  I  believe  most  useful  to  me,  I  should 
prefer  a  firm  religious  belief  to  every  other  blessing  ;  for  it 
makes  life  a  discipline  of  goodness  ;  creates  new  hopes,  when 
all  earthly  hopes  vanish  ;  and  throws  over  the  decay,  the  de- 
struction of  existence,  the  most  gorgeous  of  all  lights  ;  awakens 
life  even  in  death,  and  from  corruption  and  decay  calls  up 
beauty  and  divinity ;  makes  an  instrument  of  torture  and  of 
shame  the  ladder  of  ascent  to  paradise  ;  and  far  above  all  com- 
binations of  .earthly  hopes,  calls  up  the  most  delightful  visions 
of  palms  and  amaranths,  the  gardens  of  the  blest,  the  security 
of  everlasting  joys,  where  the  sensualist  and  the  skeptic  view 
only  gloom,  decay,  annihilation,  and  despair. 

IV. 

174.     INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY. 

THERE  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight, 
To  me  did  seem  appareled  in  celestial  light — 

•Sir  Humphrey  Davy,  who  ranks,  not    an    extended,   he  was    an   able 

as  a  man  of  science,  second  to  none  prose  writer,  and  possessed   a  fine 

in  the  nineteenth  century,  was  born  poetical  imagination,  which,  had  he 

at  Penzance,  in  Cornwall,  England,  not   been   the   first  chemist,  would 

December,  1778.     Of  his  numerous  have   placed   him   among   the   first 

discoveries,  that  of  the  safety-lamp  poets  of  his  age.  He  died  at  Geneva, 

was,  perhaps,  m^st  useful.     Though  on  the  30th  of  Mav,  1820. 

'  2?* 


538  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; 

Turn  where  so  e'er  I  may,  by  night  or  day. 

The  things  which  I  have  seen,  I  now  can  see  no  more, 

2.  The  rainbow  comes  and  goes,  and  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 
Waters  on  a  starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth, 

3.  Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound, 
To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief  ; 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 
The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep — 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong. 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng ; 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ;  ♦ 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity  ; 
And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ; — 
Thou  child  of  joy, 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy  shep 

herd  boy ! 

4.  Ye  blessed  creatures !  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal — 
The  fullness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel,  I  feel  it  alL 
O  evil  day !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 
This  sweet  May-morning, 


INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY.  539 

And  the  children  are  culling 

On  every  side, 
In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers  ;  while  the  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear ! 
— But  there's  a  tree,  of  many  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  looked  upon — 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone ; 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat. 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 

6.  Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  ; 
The  soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  star, 

Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting, 
And  conieth  from  afar. 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory,  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home. 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  boy  : 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows — 

He  sees  it  in  his  iov. 
The  vouth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended  : 
At  length  the  man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 
6.  Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own. 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind  ; 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind, 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 

The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate  man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known, 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 


540  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

7.  Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size ! 

See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art — - 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral — 
And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song. 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife  ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
The  little  actor  cons  another  part — 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  "humorous  stage" 
With  all  the  persons,  down  to  palsied  age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

8.  Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ! 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage !  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind ! — 
Mighty  prophet !  Seer  blest, 
On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave ! 
Thou  over  whom  thy  immortality 
Broods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by ! 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoko 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 


INTIMATIONS    OF    IMMORTALITY.  5^1 

Tims  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life ! 

9.  O  joy !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 
That  nature  yet  remembers 
AMiat  was  so  fugitive  ! 
The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not,  indeed, 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest- 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creef. 
Of  childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast — 
Not  for  these  I  raise  the  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings, 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprised — 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 
Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain -light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master  light  of  all  our  seeing, 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence  :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never — 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavor, 

Nor  man  nor  boy, 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy ! 

Hence  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither — 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither, 


542  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 


V 


And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

10.  Then  sing,  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  I 

And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 

As  to  the  tabor's  sound ! 
"We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng, 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 

Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 

"Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 
What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 
Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower — 

We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

Strength  in  what  remains  behind  : 

In  the  primal  sympathy 

Which,  having  been,  must  ever  be  ; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 

Out  of  human  suffering  ; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

11.  And  O  ye  fountains,  meadows,  hills,  and  groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquished  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripped  lightly  as  they  ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 
The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  coloring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality  ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears — 
To  me  the  "meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE    POET.  543 

SECTION    XXXIV. 

I. 

175.     THE    POET. 

HOW  glorious,  above  all  earthly  glory,  are  the  faculty  and 
mission  of  the  Poet !  His  are  the  flaming  thoughts  that 
pierce  the  vail  of  heaven — his  arc  the  feelings,  which  on  the  wings 
of  rapture  sweep  over  the  abyss  of  ages.  The  star  of  his  being 
is  a  splendor  of  the  world. 

2.  The  Poet's  state  and  attributes  are  half  divine.  The 
breezes  of  gladness  are  the  heralds  of  his  approach  ;  the  glimpse 
of  his  coming  is  as  the  flash  of  the  dawn.  The  hues  of  Con- 
quest flush  his  brow  :  the  anger  of  triumph  is  in  his  eyes.  The 
secret  of  Creation  is  with  him  ;  the  mystery  of  the  Immortal  is 
among  his  treasures.  The  doom  of  unending  sovereignty  is 
upon  his  nature. 

3.  The  meditations  of  his  mind  are  Angels,  and  their  issuing 
forth  is  with  the  strength  of  eternity.  The  talisman1  of  his 
speech  is  the  scepter  of  the  free.  The  decrees  of  a  dominion 
whose  sway  is  over  spirits,  and  whose  continuance  is  to  ever- 
lasting, go  out  from  before  him  ;  and  that  ethereal  essence,  which 
is  the  untamable  in  man — which  is  the  liberty  of  the  Infinite 
within  the  bondage  of  life — is  obedient  to  them.  His  phrases 
are  the  forms  of  Power  :  his  syllables  are  agencies  of  Joy. 

4.  With  men  in  his  sympathies,  that  he  may  be  above  them 
in  his  influence,  his  nature  is  the  jewel-clasp  that  binds  Humanity 
to  Heaven.  It  mediates  between  the  earthly  and  celestial  :  in 
the  vigor  of  his  production,  divinity  becomes  substantial ;  in  the 
sublimity  of  his  apprehensions,  the  material  loses  itself  into 
spirit.  It  is  his  to  drag  forth  the  eternal  from  our  mortal  form 
of  being — to  tear  the  Infinite  into  our  bounden  state  of  action. 

5.  What  conqueror  has  troops  like  his  ? — the  spirit-forces  of 
Language — those  subtle  slaves  of  mind,  those  impetuous  masters 
of  the  Passions  ;  whose  mysterious  substance  who  can  compre- 
hend—whose mighty  operation  what  can  com 'bat?  Evolved, 
none  knoweth  how,  within  the  curtained  chambers  of  existence 


1  Talisman,  (tal'izman\  something  as  preservation  from  sickness,  in- 
formed by  magical  skill,  to  which  jury,  cVc. ;  that  which  produces  re- 
wonderful  effects  were  ascribed,  such     markabl^  effects. 


544  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

— half-physical,  half-ideal,  and  finer  than  all  the  agencies  of 
Time — linked  together  by  spells,  which  are  the  spontaneous 
magic  of  genius,  which  he  that  can  use,  never  understands — the 
weird  hosts  of  words  fly  forth,  silently,  with  silver  wings,  to  win 
resistlessly  against  the  obstacles  of  Days,  and  Distance,  and 
Destruction,  to  fetter  nations  in  the  viewless  chains  of  admira- 
tion, and  be,  in  the  ever-presence  of  their  all-vitality,  the  immor- 
tal portion  of  the'r  author's  being. 

G.  Say  what  we  will  of  the  real  character  of  the  strifes  of  war, 
and  policy,  and  wealth,  the  accents  of  the  singer  are  the  true 
acts  of  the  race.  What  prince,  in  the  secret  places  of  his  dalli- 
ance, uses  such  delights  as  his  ?  Passing  through  the  life  of  the 
actual,  with  its  transitory  blisses,  its  deciduous '  hopes,  its  quickly 
waning  fires,  his  interests  dwell  only  in  the  deep  consciousness 
of  the  soul  and  mind,  to  which  belong  uu  decaying  raptures,  and 
the  tone  of  a  godlike  force.  Within  that  glowing  universe  of 
Sentiment  and  Fancy,  which  he  generates  from  his  own  strenu- 
ous and  teeming  spirit,  he  is  visited  by  immortal  forms,  whose 
motions  torment  the  heart  with  ecstasy — whose  vesture  is  of 
light — whose  society  is  a  fragrance  of  all  the  blossoms  of  Hope. 

7.  To  him  the  True  approaches  in  the  radiant  garments  of  the 
Beautiful  ;  the  Good  unvails  to  him  the  princely  splendors  of 
her  native  lineaments,  and  is  seen  to  be  Pleasure.  His  soul  lies 
strewn  upon  its  flowery  desires,  while,  from  the  fountains  of  ideal 
loveliness,  flows  softly  over  him  the  rich,  warm  luxury  of  the 
Fancy's  passion.  His  Joys  are  Powers  ;  and  it  is  the  blessedness 
of  his  condition  that  Triumph  to  him  is  prepared  not  by  toil,  but 
by  indulgence.  Begotten  by  the  creative  might  of  rapture,  and 
beaming  with  the  strength  of  the  delight  of  their  conception,  the 
shapes  of  his  imagination  come  forth  in  splendor,  and  he  fasci- 
nates the  world  with  his  felicities.  H.  B.  Wallace. 

n. 

176.     TO    THE    SPIRIT    OF    POETRY. 

LEAVE  me  not  yet!     Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 
Thou  dear  ideal  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  beautiful — the  only. 

Whom  I  would  keep,  though  all  the  world  depart ! 


De  cH'u  ons,  falling  in  autumn,  as  leaves;  not  permanent. 


TO    THE    SPIRIT    OF    POETRY.  545 

Thou,  that  dost  vail  the  frailest  flower  with  glory, 

Spirit  of  light  and  loveliness  and  truth ! 
Thou  that  didst  tell  me  a  sweet,  fairy  story 

Of  the  dim  future,  in  my  wistful  youth ! 
Thou,  who  canst  weave  a  halo  round  the  spirit, 

Through  which  naught  mean  or  evil  dare  intrude, 
Resume  not  yet  the  gift,  which  I  inherit 

From  heaven  and  thee,  that  dearest,  holiest  good ! 
Leave  me  not  now!     Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  starry  prophet  of  my  pining  heart ! 
Thou  art  the  friend — the  tenderest,  the  only, 

With  whom,  of  all,  'twould  be  despair  to  part. 

2.  Thou  that  earnest  to  mo  in  my  dreaming  childhood, 

Shaping  the  changeful  clouds  to  pageants  rare, 
Peopling  the  smiling  vale  and  shaded  wildwood 

"With  airy  beings,  faint  yet  strangely  fair  ; 
Telling  me  all  the  sea-born  breeze  was  saying, 

While  it  went  whispering  through  the  willing  leaves  ; 
■  Bidding  me  listen  to  the  light  rain  playing 

Its  pleasant  tune  about  the  household  eaves  ; 
Tuning  the  low,  sweet  ripple  of  the  river, 

Till  its  melodious  murmur  seemed  a  t-ong! 
A  tender  and  sad  chant,  repeated  ever, 

A  sweet,  impassioned  plaint  of  love  and  wrong  I 
Leave  me  not  yet !     Leave  me  not  cold  and  lonely, 

Thou  star  of  promise  o'er  my  clouded  path ! 
Leave  not  the  life,  that  borrows  from  thee  only 

All  of  delight  and  beauty  that  it  hath ! 

3.  Thou,  that  when  others  knew  not  how  to  love  me, 

Nor  cared  to  fathom  half  my  yearning  soul, 
Didst  wreathe  thy  flowers  of  light  around,  above  me, 

To  woo  and  win  me  from  my  griefs  control ; 
By  all  my  dreams,  the  passionate,  the  holy, 

When  thou  hast  sung  love's  lullaby  to  me  ; 
By  all  the  childlike  worship,  fond  and  lowly, 

Which  I  have  lavished  upon  thine  and  thee  ; 
By  all  the  lays  my  simple  lute  was  learning, 

To  echo  from  thy  voice — stay  with  me  still ! 
Once  flown — alis !  for  thee  there's  no  returning ! 

The  charm  will  die  o'er  valley,  wood,  and  hill. 


546  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Tell  me  not  Time,  whose  wing  my  brow  has  shaded, 
Has  withered  spring's  sweet  bloom  within  my  heart : 

Ah,  no !  the  rose  of  love  is  yet  un  faded, 

Though  hope  and  joy,  its  sister  flowers,  depart. 

4.  Well  do  I  know  that  I  have  wronged  thine  altar 

With  the  light  offerings  of  an  idler's  mind  ; 
And  thus  with  shame,  my  pleading  prayer  I  falter, 

Leave  me  not,  spirit !  deaf,  and  dumb,  and  blind  I 
Deaf  to  the  mystic  harmony  of  nature, 

Blind  to  the  beauty  of  her  stars  and  flowers  ; 
Leave  me  not,  heavenly  yet  human  teacher, 

Lonely  and  lost  in  this  cold  world  of  ours! 
Heaven  knows  I  need  thy  music  and  thy  beauty 

Still  to  beguile  me  on  my  weary  way, 
To  lighten  to  my  soul  the  cares  of  duty, 

And  bless  with  radiant  dreams  the  darkened  day  ; 
To  charm  my  wild  heart  in  the  worldly  revel, 

Lest  I,  too,  join  the  aimless,  false  and  vain  : 
Let  me  not  lower  to  the  soulless  level 

Of  those  whom  I  now  pity  and  disdain ! 
Leave  me  not  yet ! — leave  me  not  cold  and  pining, 

Thou  bird  of  paradise,  whose  plumes  of  light, 
Where'er  they  rested,  left  a  glory  shining  : 

Fly  not  to  heaven,  or  let  me  share  thy  flight !       Osgood. 

Frances  Sargent  Osgood,  daughter  of  Joseph  Locke,  a  Boston  merchant, 
was  born  in  that  city  about  the  year  1812.  Some  of  her  first  poems  appeared  in 
a  juvenile  Miscellany,  conducted  by  Mrs.  L.  M.  Child,  rapidly  followed  by  others, 
which  soon  gave  their  signature,  "  Florence,"  a  wide  reputation.  About  1834 
she  was  married  to  S.  S.  Osgood,  a  young  painter  already  distinguished  in  his 
profession.  They  soon  after  went  to  London,  where  Mr.  Osgood  pursued  his 
art  of  portrait-painting  with  success ;  and  his  wife's  poetical  compositions  to 
various  periodicals  met  with  equal  favor.  In  1839  a  collection  of  her  poems  was 
published  in  London,  entitled  "  A  Wreath  of  Wild-Flowers  from  New  England." 
About  the  same  period  she  wrote  "  The  Happy  Release,  or  the  Triumphs  of 
Love,"  a  play  in  three  acts.  She  returned  with  Mr.  Osgood  to  Boston  in  1840. 
They  removed  to  New  York  soon  afterward,  where  the  remainder  of  her  life 
was  principally  passed.  Her  poems,  and  prose  tales  and  sketches,  appeared  at 
brief  intervals  in  the  magazines.  In  1841  she  edited  "  The  Poetry  of  Flowers  and 
Flowers  of  Poetry,"  and  in  1847,  "The  Floral  Offering,"  two  illustrated  gift-books. 
Her  poems  were  collected  and  published  in  New  York  in  1816.  She  possessed  an 
unusual  facility  in  writing  verses,  with  a  felicitous  style,  and  was  happy  in  the 
selection  of  subjects.  Her  rare  gracefulness  and  delicacy,  and  her  unaffected  and 
lively  manners,  won  her  a  large  circle  of  warm  friends.  She  died  on  the  12th 
of  May,  1850. 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY.  547 

ILL 
177.     THE    INFLUENCE    OF    POETRY. 

WE  believe  that  poetry,  far  from  injuring  society,  is  one 
of  the  great  instruments  of  its  refinement  and  exaltation. 
It  lifts  the  mind  above  ordinary  life,  gives  it  a  respite  from  de- 
pressing cares,  and  awakens  the  consciousness  of  its  affinity 
wim  what  is  pure  and  noble.  In  its  legitimate  and  highest 
efforts,  it  has  the  same  tendency  and  aim  with  Christianity 
(krist  yan'i  ti), — that  is,  to  spiritualize  our  nature. 

2.  True,  poetry  has  been  made  the  instrument  of  vice,  the 
pander  of  bad  passions  ;  but  when  genius  thus  stoops,  it  dims 
its  fires,  and  parts  with  much  of  its.  power  ;  and  even  when 
poetry  is  enslaved  to  licentiousness  and  misan'thropy,  she  can 
not  wholly  forget  her  true  vocation.  Strains  of  pure  feeling, 
touches  of  tenderness,  images  of  innocent  happiness,  sympa- 
thies with  what  is  good  in  our  nature,  bursts  of  scorn  or  indig- 
nation at  the  hollowness  of  the  world,  passages  true  to  our 
moral  nature,  often  escape  in  an  immoral  work,  and  show  us 
how  hard  it  is  for  a  gifted  spirit  to  divorce  itself  wholly  from 
what  is  good. 

3.  Poetry  has  a  natural  alliance  with  our  best  affections.  It 
delights  in  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  outward  nature  and  of 
the  soul.  It  indeed  portrays  with  terrible  energy  the  excesses 
of  the  passions  ;  but  they  are  passions  which  show  a  mighty 
nature,  which  are  full  of  power,  which  command  awe,  and  ex- 
cite a  deep  though  shuddering  sympathy.  Its  great  tendency 
and  purpose  is  to  carry  the  mind  beyond  and  above  the  beaten, 
dusty,  weary  walks  of  ordinary  life  ;  to  lift  it  into  a  purer  ele- 
ment, and  to  breathe  into  it  more  profound  and  generous 
emotion. 

4.  It  reveals  to  us  the  loveliness  of  nature,  brings  back  the 
freshness  of  youthful  feeling,  revives  the  relish  of  simple  pleas- 
ures, keeps  unquenched  the  enthusiasm  which  warmed  the 
spring-time  of  our  being,  refines  youthful  love,  strengthens  our 
interest  in  human  nature  by  vivid  delineations  of  its  tenderest 
and  loftiest  feelings,  spreads  our  sympathies  over  all  classes  of 
society,  knits  us  by  new  ties  with  universal  being,  and,  through 
the  brightness  of  its  prophetic  visions,  helps  faith  to  lay  hold 
on  the  future  life. 


548  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

5.  We  are  aware  that  it  is  objected  to  poetry  that  it  gives 
wrong  views  and  excites  false  expectations  of  life,  peoples  the 
mind  with  shadows  and  illusions,  and  builds  up  imagination  on 
the  ruins  of  wisdom.  That  there  is  a  wisdom  against  which 
poetry  wars — the  wisdom  of  the  senses,  which  makes  physical 
comfort  and  gratification  the  supreme  good,  and  wealth  the 
chief  interest  of  life — we  do  not  deny  ;  nor  do  we  deem  it  the 
least  service  which  poetry  renders  to  mankind,  that  it  redeems 
them  from  the  thraldom  of  this  earth-born  prudence. 

6.  But,  passing  over  this  topic,  we  would  observe  that  the 
complaint  against  poetry,  as  abounding  in  illusion  and  decep- 
tion, is,  in  the  main,  groundless.  In  many  poems  there  is  more 
of  truth  than  in  many  histories  and  philosophic  theories.  The 
fictions  of  genius  are  often  the  vehicles  of  the  sublimest  veri- 
ties, and  its  flashes  often  open  new  regions  of  thought,  and 
throw  new  light  on  the  mysteries  of  our  being.  In  poetry,  when 
the  letter  is  falsehood,  the  spirit  is  often  profoundest  wisdom. 

7.  And  if  truth  thus  dwells  in  the  boldest  fictions  of  the 
poet,  much  mure  may  it  be  expected  in  his  delineations  of  life  ; 
for  the  present  life,  which  is  the  first  stage  of  the  immortal 
mind,  abounds  in  the  materials  of  poetry,  and  it  is  the  highest 
office  of  the  bard  to  detect  this  divine  element  among  the 
grosser  pleasures  and  labors  of  our  earthly  being.  The  present 
life  is  not  wholly  prosaic,  precise,  tame,  and  finite.  To  the 
gifted  eye  it  abounds  in  the  poetic. 

8.  The  affections  which  spread  beyond  ourselves,  and  stretch 
far  into  futurity  ;  the  workings  of  mighty  passions,  which  seem 
to  arm  the  soul  with  an  almost  superhuman  energy  ;  the  inno- 
cent and  irrepressible  joy  of  infancy  ;  the  bloom,  and  buoyancy, 
and  dazzling  hopes  of  youth  ;  the  throbbings  of  the  heart  when 
it  first  wakes  to  love,  and  dreams  of  a  happiness  too  vast  for 
earth  ;  woman,  with  her  beauty,  and  grace,  and  gentleness,  and 
fullness  oi  feeling,  and  depth  of  affection,  and  her  blushes  of 
purity,  and  the  tones  and  looks  which  only  a  mother's  heart 
can  inspire, — these  are  all  poetical. 

9.  It  is  not  true  that  the  poet  paints  a  life  which  does  not 
exist.  He  only  extracts  and  concentrates,  as  it  were,  life's 
ethereal  essence,  arrests  and  condenses  its  volatile  fragrance, 
brings  together  its  scattered  beauties,  and  prolongs  its  more 
refined  but  evanes'cent  joys  ;  and  in  this  he  does  well  ;  for  it  is 


TO    THE    POET.  5^<J 

good  to  feel  that  life  is  not  wholly  usurped  by  cares  for  sub- 
sistence and  physical  gratifications,  but  admits,  in  measures 
which  may  be  indefinitely  enlarged,  sentiments  and  delights 
worthy  of  a  higher  being. 

10.  This  power  of  poetry  to  refine  our  views  of  life  and  hap- 
piness is  more  and  more  needed  as  society  advances.  It  is 
needed  to  withstand  the  encroachments  of  heartless  and  artifi- 
cial manners,  which  makes  civilization  so  tame  and  unin'ter- 
esting.  It  is  needed  to  counteraet  the  tendency  of  physical 
science,  which — being  now  sought,  not,  as  formerly,  for  intel- 
lectual gratification,  but  for  multiplying  bodily  comforts — re- 
quires a  new  development  of  imagination,  taste,  and  poetry,  to 
preserve  men  from  sinking  into  an  earthly,  material,  epy  icure'an ' 
life.  Cuanninq. 

William  Elleiiy  Channing,  D.  D.,  an  eminent  American  divine,  was  bora 
at  Newport,  R.  I.,  April  7th,  1780.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  was  sent  to  New 
London,  Conn.,  to  prepare  for  college  under  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Henry  Chan- 
ning. His  father,  an  able  and  hospitable  lawyer,  soon  afterward  died,  to 
which,  in  connection  with  a  revival  which  then  swept  over  New  England,  he 
attributed  the  commencement  of  his  decidedly  religious  life.  He  entered  the 
freshman  class  of  Harvard  College  in  1794,  where  he  graduated  with  the  highest 
honors.  He  became  pastor  of  the  Federal  Street  Church,  Boston,  in  1803.  The 
society  rapidly  increased  under  his  charge,  and  his  reputation  and  influence 
became  marked  and  extensive.  He  married,  in  1814;  visited  Europe  for  his 
health,  in  1823;  and  died  at  Bennington,  Vt.,  October  2,  1S42.  He  published 
many  admirable  addresses  and  letters.  His  nephew,  William  E.  Channing,  col 
lected  and  published  six  volumes  of  his  writings  in  1848.  A  selection  of  his 
writings,  entitled  "Beauties  o* Channing,"  has  been  published  in  London;  and 
many  of  his  essays,  at  various  times,  have  been  translated  into  German.  Among 
the  best  of  his  general  writings  are  his  "Remarks  on  the  Character  and  Writings 
of  Milton;"  on  "Bonaparte;"  on  "Fenelon;"  and  on  "Self-Culture." 

IV. 

178.     TO    THE    POET. 

THOU,  who  wouldst  wear  the  name 
Of  poet  mid  thy  brethren  of  mankind, 
And  clothe  in  words  of  flame 

Thoughts  that  shall  live  within  the  general  mind,— 
Deem  not  the  framing  of  a  deathless  lay 
The  pastime  of  a  drowsy  summer  day. 

1  Epv  i  cu  re'  an,  pertaining  to  upon  the  opinion  that  pleasure  con- 
Epicurus,  a  celebrated  Greek  philo-  stitutes  the  highest  human  happi- 
sopher,    whose    theory   was    based     ness;  hence,  given  to  luxury. 


550  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  But  gather  all  thy  powers, 

And  wreak  them  on  the  verse  that  thou  dost  weave5 
And  in  thy  lonely  hours, 

At  silent  morning  or  at  wakeful  eve, 
"While  the  warm  current  tingles  through  thy  veins, 
Set  forth  the  burning  words  in  fluent  strains. 

3.  No  smooth  array  of  phrase, 

Artfully  sought  and  ordered  though  it  be, 
Which  the  cold  rhymer  lays 

Upon  his  page  with  languid  m'dustry, 
Can  wake  the  listless  pulse  to  livelier  speed, 
Or  fill  with  sudden  tears  the  eyes  that  read. 

4.  The  secret  wouldst  thou  know 

To  touch  the  heart  or  fire  the  blood  at  will  ? 
Let  thine  own  eyes  6'erflow  ; 

Let  thy  lips  quiver  with  the  passionate  thrill ; 
Seize  the  great  thought,  ere  yet  its  power  be  past, 
And  bind,  in  words,  the  fleet  emotion  fast. 

5.  Then,  should  thy  verse  appear 

Halting  and  harsh,  and  all  unaptly  wrought, 
Touch  the  crude  line  with  fear, 

Save  in  the  moment  of  impassioned  thought ; 
Then  summon  back  the  original  glow,  and  mend 
The  strain  with  rapture  that  with  fire  was  penned. 

6.  Yet  let  no  empty  gust 

Of  passion  find  an  utterance  in  thy  lay, 
A  blast  that  whirls  the  dust 

Along  the  howling  street  and  dies  away  ; 
But  feelings  of  calm  power  and  mighty  sweep, 
Like  currents  journeying  through  the  windless  deep. 

7.  Seek'st  thou,  in  living  lays, 

To  limn  the  beauty  of  the  earth  and  sky  ? 
Before  thine  inner  gaze 

Let  all  that  beauty  in  clear  vision  lie  ; 
Look  on  it  with  exceeding  love,  and  write 
The  words  inspired  by  wonder  and  delight. 

8.  Of  tempests  wouldst  thou  sing, 

Or  tell  of  battles — make  thyself  a  part 


THE    BELLS.  551 

Of  the  great  tumult  ;  cling 

To  the  tossed  wreck  with  terror  in  thy  heart  ; 
Scale,  with  the  assaulting  host,  the  rampart's  height, 
And  strike  and  struggle  in  the  thickest  fight. 

9.  So  shalt  thou  frame  a  lay 

That  haply  may  endure  from  age  to  age, 
And  they  who  read  shall  say  : 

What  witchery  hangs  upon  this  poet's  page  ! 
What  art  is  his  the  written  spells  to  find 
That  sway  from  mood  to  mood  the  willing  mind  !     Bryant. 


SECTIOX    XXXV. 
I. 

179.     THE    BELLS. 


H 


EAR  the  sledges  with  the  bells — 
Silver  bells — 


"What  a  world  of  merriment  their  melody  foretells  ! 
How  they  tinkle,  tinkle,  tinkle, 

In  the  icy  air  of  night ! 
While  the  stars  that  oversprinkle 
All  the  heavens,  seem  to  twinkle 

With  a  crystalline  delight ; 
Keeping  time,  time,  time, 
In  a  sort  of  Runic  '  rhvme, 
To  the  tintinnabulation  J  that  so  musically  wells 
From  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
From  the  jingling  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells. 

2.      Hear  the  mellow  wedding-bells, 
Golden  bells ! 
What  a  world3  of  happiness  their  harmony  foretells  I 
Through  the  balmy  air  of  night 
How  they  ring  out  their  delight ! 

»  Runic  (r5'  nik),   an   epithet   ap-         3  Tinr  tin  naV  u  la'  tion,  a    tink- 
plied  to  the  language  and  letters  of    ling  sound,  as  of  a  bell  or  bells, 
the  ancient  Goths.  s  World,  (w&rld). 


552  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

From  the  molten-golden  notes, 

And  all  in  tune, 
What  a,  liquid  ditty  floats 
To  the  turtle-dove  that  listens,  while  she  gloats 
On  the  moon ! 
Oh,  from  out  the  sounding  cells, 
What  a  gush  of  euphony  voluminously  wells ! 
How  it  swells ! 
How  it  dwells 
On  the  Future  !  how  it  tells 
Of  the  rapture  that  impels 
To  the  swinging  and  the  ringing 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells — 
To  the  rhyming  and  the  chiming  of  the  bells ! 
3.      Hear  the  loud  alarum  bells — 
Brazen  bells ! 
What  a  tale  of  terror,  now,  their  turbulency  tells ! 
In  the  startled  ear  of  night 
How  they  scream  out  their  affright ! 
Too  much  horrified  to  speak, 
They  can  only  shriek,  shriek, 
Out  of  tune, 
In  a  clamorous  appealing  to  the  mercy  of  the  fire, 
In  a  mad  expostulation  with  the  deaf  and  frantic  fire 
Leaping  higher,  higher,  higher, 
With  a  desperate  desire, 
And  a  resolute  endeavor, 
Now — now  to  sit  or  never, 
By  the  side  of  the  pale-faced  moon. 
Oh,  the  bells,  bells,  bells  ! 
What  a  tale  their  terror  tells 
Of  despair ! 
How  they  clang,  and  clash,  and  roar ! 
What  a  horror  they  outpour 
On  the  bosom  of  the  palpitating  air ! 
Yet  the  air,  it  fully  knows, 
By  the  twanging 
And  the  clanging, 


THE    BELLS  553 

How  the  danger  ebbs  and  flows  ; 
Yet  the  car  distinctly  tells 
In  the  jangling 
And  the  wrangling, 
How  the  danger  sinks  and  swells, 
By  the  sinking  or  the  swelling  in  the  anger  of  the  bells — 
Of  the  bells— 
Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells, 
Bells,  bells,  bells— 
In  tha  clamor  and  the  clangor  of  the  bells ! 

4.      Hear  the  tolling  of  the  belh — 
Iron  bells ! 
What  a  world  of  solemn  thought  their  monody  '  compels  ! 
In  the  silence  of  the  night, 
How  we  shiver  with  affright 
At  the  mel'ancholy  menace  of  their  tone  1 
For  every  sound  that  floats 
From  the  rust  within  thuir  throats 

Is  a  groan. 
And  the  people — ah,  the  people — 
They  that  dwell  up  in  the  steeple, 

All  alone, 
And  who  tolling,  tolling,  tolling, 

In  that  muffled  monotone, 
Feel  a  glory  in  so  rolling 

On  the  human  heart  a  stone  — 
They  are  neither  man  nor  woman — 
They  are  neither  brute  nor  human — 

They  are  Ghouls  :a 
And  their  king  it  is  who  tolls  ; 
And  he  rolls,  rolls,  rolls,  rolls, 

A  prean 3  from  the  bells  ! 
And  his  merry  bosom  swells 
With  the  pa?an  of  the  bells  ! 

1  M5n'  o  dy,  a  species  of  poem  of  was  supposed  to  prey  upon  human 

a  mournful   character,  in  which   a  bodies. 

single  mourner  is  supposed  to  bewail  3  Pae'  an,  among  the   antfentt,  a 

himself.  song  of  rejoicing  in  honor  of  Apollo ; 

5  Ghoul  (g6l),  an  imaginary  evil  hence,  a  loud   and  joyous  song ;   a 

being  among  Eastern  nations,  which  song  of  triumph- 


554  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READEtt. 

And  he  dances  and  lie  yells ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  psean  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells  : 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

In  a  sort  of  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  throbbing  of  the  bells—- 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells, 

To  the  sobbing  of  the  bells  ; 

Keeping  time,  time,  time, 

As  he  knells,  knells,  knells, 

In  a  happy  Runic  rhyme, 

To  the  rolling  of  the  bells — 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells — 

To  the  tolling  of  the  bells, 

Of  the  bells,  bells,  bells,  bells — 

Bells,  bells,  bells — 

To  the  moaning  and  the  groaning  of  the  bells. 

Edgar  A.  Poe. 

Edgar  A.  Poe,  born  in  Baltimore,  in  January,  1811,  was  left  an  orphan  by  the 
death  of  his  parents  at  Richmond,  in  1815.  He  was  adopted  by  John  Allen,  a 
wealthy  merchant  of  Virginia,  who  in  the  following  year  took  him  to  England, 
and  placed  him  at  a  school  near  London,  from  which,  in  1822,  he  was  removed 
to  the  University  of  Virginia,  where  he  graduated  with  distinction  in  1826. 
While  at  the  Military  Academy  at  West  Point,  in  1830,  he  published  his  first 
work,  a  small  volume  of  poems.  He  secured  prizes  for  a  poem  and  a  tale  at 
Baltimore,  in  1833;  in  1835  he  was  employed  to  assist  in  editing  "The  Southern 
Literary  Gazette,"  at  Richmond ;  in  1838  he  removed  to  Philadelphia,  where  he 
was  connected  as  editor  with  Burton's  Magazine  one  year,  and  with  Graham's  a 
year  and  a  half;  and  subsequently,  while  in  that  city,  published  several  volumes 
of  tales,  besides  many  of  his  finest  criticisms,  tales,  and  poems,  in  periodicals.  He 
went  to  New  York  in  1844,  where  he  wrote  several  months  for  the  "  Evening 
Mirror."  In  1845  appeared  his  very  popular  poem  of  "  The  Raven,"  and  the 
same  year  he  aided  in  establishing  the  "  Broadway  Journal,"  of  which  he  was 
afterward  the  sole  editor.  His  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  about  twelve 
years,  died  in  the  spring  of  1849.  In  the  summer  of  that  year  he  returned  to 
Virginia,  where  it  was  supposed  he  had  mastered  his  previous  habits  of  dissipa- 
tion ;  but  he  died  from  his  excesses,  at  Baltimore,  on  the  seventh  of  October,  at 
the  age  of  thirty-eight  years.  In  poetry,  as  in  prose,  he  was  eminently  success- 
ful in  the  metaphysical  treatment  of  the  passions.  He  had  a  great  deal  of  imag- 
ination and  fancy,  and  his  mind  was  highly  analytical.  His  poems  are  con- 
structed with  wonderful  ingenuity,  and  finished  with  consummate  art. 


THE    CRY    OF    THE    HUMAN.  ~,~>3 

II. 

180.     THE    CRY    OF    THE    nUMAN. 

«  rpHERE  is  no  God,'  the  foolish  saith, 
I        But  none,  '  There  is  no  sorrow  ;' 
And  nature  oft,  the  cry  of  faith, 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow  : 
Eyes  which  the  preacher  could  not  school, 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised  ; 
And  lips  say,  '  God  be  pitiful/ 
Who  ne'er  said,  '  God  be  praised.' 

Be  pitiful,  O  God ! 

2.  The  tempest  stretches  from  the  steep 
The  shadow  of  its  coming  ; 
The  beasts  grow  tame,  and  near  us  creep, 

As  help  were  in  the  human  : 
Yet,  while  the  cloud- wheels  roll  and  grind 

We  spirits  tremble  under ! — 
The  bills  have  echoes  ;  but  we  find 
No  answer  for  the  thunder. 

Be  pitiful,  OGod! 

8.  The  battle  hurtles  '  on  the  plains — 
Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her  : 
We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains, 

And  call  the  harvest  .  .  honor, 
Draw  face  to  face,  front  line  to  line, 

One  image  all  inherit, — 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign, 
Clay,  clay — and  spirit,  spirit. 

Be  pitiful,  OGod! 

4.  The  plague  runs  festering  through  the  town, 

And  never  a  bell  is  tolling  ; 
And  corpses,  jostled  'neath  the  moon, 

Nod  to  the  dead-cart's  rolling. 
The  young  child  calleth  for  the  cup — 

The  strong  man  brings  it  weeping  ; 

1  Hurtle  (hSr'tl),  to  make  a  clashing,  terrifying,  or  threatening  sound ; 
to  resound. 


556  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

The  mother  from  her  babe  looks  up, 
And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  f 

5.  The  plague  of  gold  strikes  far  and  near, 

And  deep  and  strong  it  enters  : 
This  purple  simar  '  which  we  wear, 

Makes  madder  than  the  centaur's.2 
Our  thoughts  grow  blank,  our  words  grow  strange  ; 

We  cheer  the  pale  gold-diggers — 
Each  soul  is  worth  so  much  on  'Change, 

And  marked,  like  sheep,  with  figures. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God ! 

6.  The  curse  of  gold  upon  the  land, 

The  lack  of  bread  enforces — 
The  rail-cars  snort  from  strand  to  strand, 

Like  more  of  Death's  White  Horses  ! 
The  rich  preach  '  rights'  and  future  days, 

And  hear  no  angel  scoffing  : 
The  poor  die  mute — with  starving  gaze 

On  corn-ships  in  the  ofnng. 

Be  pitiful,  0  God ! 

7.  We  meet  together  at  the  feast — 

To  private  mirth  betake  us — 
We  stare  down  in  the  winecup,  lest 

Some  vacant  chair  should  shake  us ! 
We  name  delight,  and  pledge  it  round — 

'  It  shall  be  ours  to-morrow  !' 
God's  seraphs  !  do  your  voices  sound 

As  sad  in  naming  sorrow  ? 

Be  pitiful,  0  God  ! 

8.  We  sit  together,  with  the  skies, 

The  steadfast  skies,  above  us  : 
We  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 
4  And  how  long  will  you  love  us  ?' 


i  Simar  (si  mar'),  a   kind  of  long  as  man  from  the  head  to  the  loins, 

gown  or  robe.  the   remainder  of  the  body   being 

2  Cen'  taur,  a  fabulous  being,  sup-  that  of  a   horse  with  its  four  feet 

posed  to  be  half  man  and  half  horse,  and  tail ;  also,  as  here  used,  a  bulk 

represented  in  ancient  works  of  art  killer. 


THE    CRY    OF    TIIE    HUMAN.  557 

The  eyes  grow  dim  with  prophecy, 

The  voices,  low  and  breathless — 
'Till  death  us  part' — 0  words,  to  be 

Our  best  for  love  the  deathless  ! 

Be  pitiful,  dear  God ! 

9.  Wo  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 
Of  one  loved  and  departed — 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 
Last  night,  '  Be  stronger  hearted  !' 
O  God, — to  clasp  those  fingers  close, 

And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely  ! — 

To  see  a  light  upon  such  brows, 

Which  is  the  daylight  only ! 

Be  pitiful,  OGod! 

10.  The  happy  children  come  to  us, 

And  look  up  in  our  faces  : 
They  ask  us — Was  it  thus,  and  thus, 

When  we  were  in  their  places  ? 
We  can  not  speak  : — we  see  anew 

The  hills  we  used  to  live  in  ; 
And  feel  our  mother's  smile  press  through 

The  kisses  she  is  giving. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God ! 

11.  We  pray  together  at  the  kirk, 

For  mercy,  mercy,  solely — 
Hands  weary  with  the  evil  work, 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy ! 
The  corpse  is  calm  below  our  knee — 

Its  spirit,  bright  before  Thee — 
Between  them,  worse  than  either,  we — 

Without  the  rest  of  glory  ! 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  J 

12.  We  leave  the  communing  of  men, 

The  murmur  of  the  passions  ; 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

With  endless  generations. 
Are  we  so  bravo  ? — The  sea  and  sky 

In  silence  lift  their  mirrors  ; 


558  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

And,  glassed  therein,  our  spirits  high 
Recoil  from  their  own  terrors. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God ! 

13.  We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist, 

Woods,  hamlets,  streams,  beholding  : 
The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest  mist, 

The  city's  spire  to  golden. 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was, 

When  hope  and  health  were  strongest, 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass, 
We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God ! 

15.  And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull — 
Men  whisper,  '  He  is  dying  :' 
We  cry  no  more,  '  Be  pitiful !' — 

We  have  no  strength  for  crying  : 
No  strength,  no  need  !     Then,  Soul  of  mine, 

Look  up  and  triumph  rather — 
Lo  !  in  the  depth  of  God's  Divine, 
The  Son  adjures  the  Father — 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 

Mrs.  Browning. 

Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  an  English  poetess,  and  one  of  the  greatest, 
if  not  the  greatest,  was  born  in  London,  in  1809.  Educated  with  great  care,  she 
became  a  ripe  scholar,  uniting  remarkably  the  distinctive  characteristics  of  the 
masculine  understanding  and  the  feminine  heart.  She  began  to  write  at  a  very 
early  age  for  periodicals.  Her  first  volume  of  poems  appeared  in  1826.  She 
became  the  wife  of  Robert  Browning  in  1846.  She  died  at  Florence,  the  princi- 
pal residence  of  the  Brownings  for  several  years,  June  29th,  1861.  Her  range  ot 
subjects  was  wide.  Her  genius  grew  apace,  every  new  performance  giving  better 
promise  for  the  next.  She  abounded  in  figures,  strong  and  striking,  in  happy 
conceits,  and  successful  expressions.  She  knew  the  true  art  of  choosing  words, 
a  large  per  cent,  of  them  being  Saxon.  Of  her  numerous  poems,  probably  none 
surpasses  "  Aurora  Leigh,"  a  narrative  poem  in  9  books,  published  in  1856. 

in. 

181.     THE    RAVEN. 

1. 

ONCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered,  weak  and 
weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint  and  curious  volume  of  forgotten  lore — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there  came  a  tapping, 


THE    RAVEN.  559 

As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber-door. 
"  "lis  some  visitor,"  I  muttered,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber-door — 
Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

2. 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the  floor, 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow  :  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  Borrow — sorrow  for  the  lost  Lenore — 
For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Nameless  here  forevermore. 

3. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  uncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain, 
Thrilled  me — filled  me  with  fantastic  terrors  never  felt  before  ; 
So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  my  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door, — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door  ; 
That  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

4. 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger :  hesitating  then  no  longer, 
"  Sir,"  Raid  I,  "  or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore  ; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber-door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide  the  door: 
Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

5. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream 

before  ; 
But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no  token, 
And   the    only  word   there  spoken  was   the  whispered   word 

"  Lenore!" 
This  7whisper'd,and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word,  "Lenore  !" 
Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

6. 

Back  "into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me  burning, 
Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than  before. 
"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window-lattice  ; 


560  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Let  me  see  then  what  thereat  is,  and  this  mystery  explore, — 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore  ; — 

"lis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 

7. 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter, 
In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 
Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he  ;  not  a  minute  stopp'd  or  stay'd  he ; 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perch'd  above  my  chamber-door, — 
Perch'd  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door — 
Perch'd,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

8. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling, 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art  sure 

no  craven  ; 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly 

shore, 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore  ?" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !" 

9. 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore  ; 
Eor  we  can  not  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber-door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber-door, 
With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore  !" 

10. 

But  the  raven  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  outpour. 
Nothing  further  then  he  utter'd — not  a  feather  then  he  flutter'd — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than  mutter 'd,  "  Other  friends  have  flown 

before — 
On  the  morrow  he  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown  before* 
Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore  !" 

11. 

Startled  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"Doubtless,"  said  I,  "what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and  store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful  disaster 


THE    RAVEN.  561 

Follow'd  fast  and  follow'd  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden  bore, — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 
Of — "  Never — nevermore  !" 

12. 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling, 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird,  and  bust, 

and  door, 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird  of  yore 
Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore !" 

13. 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl,  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burned  into  my  bosom's  core 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated  o'er, 
But  whose  velvet  violet  lining,  with  the  lamp-light  gloating  o'er 
She  shall  press — ah  !  nevermore  ! 

14. 

Then  methought  the  air  grew  denser,  perfumed  from  an  unseen 

censer 
Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted  floor. 
11  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee — by  these  angels 

he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  '  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore  ! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this  kind  nepenthe,  and  forget  this  lost  Lenore!" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !" 

15. 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  toss'd  thee  here  ashore, 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  Horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ? — tell  me — tell  me,  I  implore  P 
Quoth  the  raven,  "Nevermore  !" 

16. 

"  Prophet !"  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil ! — prophet  still,  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore, 

1  Ne  pSn'the,  a  drug  or  medicine  that  relieves  pain  and  exhilarates. 

24* 


562  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Tell  this  soul,  with  sorrow  laden,  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn,1 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore  ; 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore!" 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !" 

17. 

"  Be  that  word  our  sign  of  parting,  bird  or  fiend !"  I  shrieked, 

upstarting — 
"  Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  Night's  Plutonian  shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath  spoken ! 
Leave  my  loneliness  unbroken ! — quit  the  bust  above  my  door  ! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off 

my  door !" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  I" 

18. 
And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door  ; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the 

floor  ; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — Nevermore  !  Edgar  A.  Poe. 


SECTION    XXXYI. 

I. 

182.     THE    SARACEN    BROTHERS. 

PART    FIRST. 

ATTENDANT.  A  stranger  craves  admittance  to  your 
highness. 
Saladin.  Whence  comes  he  ? 
Atten.  That  I  know  not. 
Enveloped  with  a  vestment  of  strange  form, 
His  countenance  is  hidden  ;  but  his  step, 


J  Aidenn,  from  Aides,  a  name  pre-  transferred  to  his  house,  his  abode, 

ferred  by  the  poets  for  Hades.     In  or  kingdom,   so   that   it  became  a 

Homer,  Aides  is  invariably  the  name  name  in  quite  general  use  for  the 

of  the  god  ;  but  in  latter  times  it  was  nether  world. 


THE  SARACEN  BROTHERS.  563 

His  lofty  port,  bis  voice  in  vain  disguised, 
Proclaim — if  that  I  dare  pronounce  it. 

Sal.  Whom  ? 

Atten.  Thy  royal  brother  ! 

Sal.  Bring  him  instantly.      [Exit  Attendant. 

Now,  with  his  specious,  smooth,  persuasive  tongue, 
Fraught  with  some  wily  subterfuge,  he  thinks 
To  dissipate  my  anger.     He  shall  die. 

[Enter  Attendant  and  Ma  lee  Adhel. 
Leave  us  together.     [Exit  Attendant.]    [Aside.']  I  should  know 

that  form. 
Now  summon  all  thy  fortitude,  my  soul, 
Nor,  though  thy  blood  cry  for  him,  spare  the  guilty ! 
[Aloud  j     Well,  stranger,  speak  ;  but  first  unvail  thyself, 
For  Sal'adm  l  must  view  the  form  that  fronts  him. 

Malek  Adhel.  Behold  it,  then  ! 

Sal  I  see  a  traitor's  visage. 

Mai.  Ad.  A  brother's  ! 

Sal.  No ! 

Saladin  owns  no  kindred  with  a  villain. 

Mai.  Ad.  O,  patience,  Heaven.     Had  any  tongue  but  thine 
Uttered  that  word,  it  ne'er  should  speak  another. 

Sal.  And  why  not  now  ?     Can  this  heart  be  more  pierced 
By  Malek  Adhel's  sword  than  by  his  deeds  ? 
Oh,  thou  hast  made  a  desert  of  this  bosom  ! 
For  open  candor,  planted  sly  disguise  ; 
For  confidence,  suspicion  ;  and  the  glow 
Of  generous  friendship,  tenderness,  and  love, 
Forever  banished  !     Whither  can  I  turn, 
When  he  by  blood,  by  gratitude,  by  faith, 
By  every  tie,  bound  to  support,  forsakes  me  ? 
Who,  who  can  stand,  when  Malek  Adhel  falls  ? 

1  Sal'  a  din,  the  hero  of  this  dra-  and  conquests.    Christians  and  Sara- 

matic  piece,  was  born  in  1137.     He  cens  have  vied  with  each  other  in 

became  Sultan  of  Egypt  and  Syria  writing  panegyrics  on  the  justice, 

in   1168,  from  which  period   he   is  valor,  generosity,  and  political  wis- 

noted  for  his  wars  with  the  Chris-  dom  of  this  prince,  who  possessed 

tian  crusaders.     He  died  at  Damas-  the   art,    not    simply   of    acquiring 

cus  in  1193,  leaving  a  brother  and  power,   but   of  devoting   it   to  the 

seventeen  eons  to  6hare  his  power  good  of  his  subjects. 


584  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Henceforth.  I  turn  me  from  the  sweets  of  love  : 
The  smiles  of  friendship,  and  this  glorious  world, 
In  which  all  find  some  heart  to  rest  upon, 
Shall  be  to  Saladin  a  cheerless  void, — 
His  brother  has  betrayed  him  ! 

Mil.  Ad.  Thou  art  softened  ; 

I  am  thy  brother,  then  ;  but  late  thou  saidst > 

My  tongue  can  never  utter  the  base  title  ! 

S.il.  Was  it  traitor  ?     True  ! 
Thou  hast  betrayed  me  in  my  fondest  hopes  ! 
Villain  ?     'Tis  just  ;  the  title  is  appropriate 
Dissembler  ?     'Tis  not  written  in  thy  face  ; 
No,  nor  imprinted  on  that  specious  brow  ; 
But  on  this  breaking  heart  the  name  is  stamped, 
Forever  stamped,  with  that  of  Malek  Adhel ! 
Think'st  thou  I'm  softened  ?     By  Mahomet !  these  hands 
Should  crush  these  aching  eyeballs,  ere  a  tear 
Fall  from  them  at  thy  fate  !     O  monster,  monster ! 
The  brute  that  tears  the  infant  from  its  nurse 
Is  excellent  to  thee,  for  in  his  form 
The  impulse  of  his  nature  may  be  read  ; 
But  thou,  so  beautiful,  so  proud,  so  noble, 
Oh,  what  a  wretch  art  thou  ?     Oh  !  can  a  term 
In  all  the  various  tongues  of  man  be  found 
To  match  thy  infamy  ? 

Mai.  Ad.  Go  on !  go  on ! 

'Ti3  but  a  little  while  to  hear  thee,  Saladin  ; 
And,  bursting  at  thy  feet,  this  heart  will  prove 
Its  penitence,  at  least. 

Sal.  That  were  an  end 

Too  noble  for  a  traitor  !     The  bowstring  is 
A  more  appropriate  finish  !     Thou  shalt  die  ! 

Mai.  Ad.  And  death  were  welcome  at  another's  mandate ! 
What,  what  have  I  to  live  for  ?     Be  it  so, 
If  that,  in  all  thy  armies,  can  be  found 
An  executing  hand. 

Sal.  Oh,  doubt  it  not ! 

They're  eager  for  the  office.     Perfidy, 
So  black  as  thine,  effaces  from  their  minds 
All  memory  of  thy  former  excellence. 


THE  SARACEN  BROTHERS.  565 

Mai.  Ad.  Defer  not  then  their  -wishes.     Saladin, 
If  e'er  this  form  was  joyful  to  thy  sight, 
This  voice  seemed  grateful  to  thine  ear,  accede 
To  my  last  prayer  : — Oh,  lengthen  not  this  scene, 
To  which  the  agonies  of  death  were  pleasing ! 
Let  me  die  speedily  ! 

Sal.  This  very  hour  ! 

[Aside,']  For,  oh  !  the  more  I  look  upon  that  face, 
The  more  I  hear  the  accents  of  that  voice, 
The  monarch  softens,  and  the  judge  is  lost 
In  all  the  brother's  weakness  ;  yet  such  guilt, — 
Such  vile  ingratitude, — it  calls  for  vengeance  ; 
And  vengeance  it  shall  have  !     AVhat,  ho !  who  waits  there  ? 

[Enter  Attendant. 

Atten.  Did  your  highness  call  ? 

Sal.  Assemble  quickly 

My  forces  in  the  court.     Tell  them  they  come 
To  view  the  death  of  yonder  bosom-traitor. 
And,  bid  them  mark,  that  he  who  will  not  spare 
His  brother  when  he  errs,  expects  obedience, 
Silent  obedience,  from  his  followers.  [  Exit  Attendant. 

n. 

183.  THE  SARACEN  BROTHERS. 

PART    SECOND. 

MALEK  ADHEL.  Now,  Sal'adin, 
The  word  is  given,  I  have  nothing  more 
To  fear  from  thee,  my  brother.     I  am  not 
About  to  crave  a  miserable  life. 
Without  thy  love,  thy  honor,  thy  esteem, 
Life  were  a  burden  to  me.     Thiuk  not,  either, 
The  justice  of  thy  sentence  I  would  question. 
But  one  request  now  trembles  on  my  tongue, — 
One  wish  still  clinging  round  the  heart,  which  soon 
Not  even  that  shall  torture, — will  it,  then, 
Think'st  thou,  thy  slumbers  render  quieter, 
Thy  waking  thoughts  more  pleasing,  to  reflect, 
That  when  thv  voice  had  doomed  a  brother's  death, 
The  last  request  which  e'er  was  his  to  utter, 


566  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Thy  harshness  made  him  carry  to  the  grave  ? 

Sal.  Speak,  then  ;  but  ask  thyself  if  thou  hast  reason 
To  look  for  much  indulgence  here. 

Mai.  Ad.  I  hare  not ! 

Yet  will  1  ask  for  it.     We  part  forever  ; 
This  is  our  last  farewell ;  the  king  is  satisfied  ; 
The  judge  has  spoke  the  irrevocable  sentence. 
None  sees,  none  hears,  save  that  omniscient  Power, 
"Which,  trust  me,  will  not  frown  to  look  upon 
Two  brothers  part  like  such.     When,  in  the  face 
Of  forces  once  my  own,  I'm  led  to  death, 
Then  be  thine  eye  unmoistened  ;  let  thy  voice 
Then  speak  my  doom  untrembling  ;  then 
Unmoved,  behold  this  stiff  and  blackened  corse  : 
But  now  I  ask — nay,  turn  not,  Saladin  ! — 
I  ask  one  single  pressure  of  thy  hand  ; 
From  that  stern  eye  one  solitary  tear — 
Oh,  torturing  recollection  ! — one  kind  word 
From  the  loved  tongue  which  once  breathed  naught  but  kindness. 
Still  silent  ?     Brother  !  friend !  beloved  companion 
Of  all  my  youthful  sports  ! — are  they  forgotten  ? 
Strike  me  with  deafness,  make  me  blind,  O  Heaven ! 
Let  me  not  see  this  unforgiving  man 
Smile  at  my  agonies  !  nor  hear  that  voice 
Pronounce  my  doom,  which  would  not  say  one  word, 
One  little  word,  whose  cherished  memory 
Would  soothe  the  struggles  of  departing  life  ! 
Yet,  yet  thou  wilt !     Oh,  turn  thee,  Saladin  ! 
Look  on  my  face — thou  canst  not  spurn  me  then  ; 
Look  on  the  once-loved  face  of  Malek  Adhel 
For  the  last  time,  and  call  him — 

Sal.  [seizing  his  hand.]  Brother!  brother! 

Mai.  Ad.   [breaking  away.]  Now,  call  thy  followers. 
Death  has  not  now  a  single  pang  in  store.  Proceed  !  I'm  ready. 

Sal.  Oh,  art  thou  ready  to  forgive,  my  brother  ? 
To  pardon  him  who  found  one  single  error, 
One  little  failing,  mid  a  splendid  throng 
Of  glorious  qualities — 

Mai.  Ad.  Oh,  stay  thee,  Saladin  ! 
I  did  not  ask  for  life.     I  only  wished 


THE    SARACEN    BROTHERS.  567 

To  carry  thy  forgiveness  to  the  grave. 

No,  Emperor,  the  loss  of  Cesarea 

Cries  loudly  for  the  blood  of  Malek  Adhel. 

Thy  soldiers,  too,  demand  that  he  who  lost 

What  cost  them  many  a  weary  hour  to  gain, 

Should  expiate  his  offences  with  his  life. 

Lo  !  even  now  they  crowd  to  view  my  death, 

Thy  just  impartiality.     I  go  ! 

Pleased  by  my  fate  to  add  one  other  leaf 

To  thy  proud  wreath  of  glory.     [Going. 

Sal.  Thou  shalt  not.     [Enter  Attendant. 

Atten.  My  lord,  the  troops  assembled  by  your  order 
Tumultous  throng  the  courts.     The  prince's  death 
Not  one  of  them  but  vows  he  will  not  suffer. 
The  mutes  have  fled  ;  the  very  guards  rebel. 
Nor  think  I,  in  this  city's  spacious  round, 
Can  e'er  be  found  a  hand  to  do  the  office. 

Mai.  Ad.  O  faithful  friends  !     [To  Atten.]     Thine  shalt. 

Atten.  Mine  ? — Never  ! — 
The  other  first  shall  lop  it  from  the  body. 

Sal.  They  teach  the  Emperor  his  duty  well. 
Tell  them  he  thanks  them  for  it.     Tell  them,  too, 
That  ere  their  opposition  reached  our  ears, 
Saladin  had  forgiven  Malek  Adhel. 

Atten.  O  joyful  news  ! 
I  haste  to  gladden  many  a  gallant  heart, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  many  a  hardy  cheek, 
Unused  to  such  a  visitor.      [Exit. 

Sal.  These  men,  the  meanest  in  society, 
The  outcasts  of  the  earth, — by  war,  by  nature 
Hardened,  and  rendered  callous, — these,  who  claim 
No  kindred  with  thee, — who  have  never  heard 
The  accents  of  affection  from  thy  lips, — 
Oh,  these  can  cast  aside  their  vowed  allegiance, 
Throw  off  their  long  obedience,  risk  their  lives, 
To  save  thee  from  destruction  !     While  I, 
I,  who  can  not,  in  all  my  memory, 
Call  back  one  danger  which  thou  hast  not  shared, 
One  day  of  grief,  one  night  of  revelry, 
Which  thy  resistless  kindness  hath  not  soothed, 


5ft8  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Or  thy  gay  smile  and  converse  rendered  sweeter, — 

I,  who  have  thrice  in  the  ensanguined  field, 

When  death  seemed  certain,  only  uttered  "  Brother  !" 

And  seen  that  form  like  lightning  rush  between 

Saladin  and  his  foes,  and  that  brave  breast 

Dauntless  exposed  to  many  a  furious  blow 

Intended  for  my  own, — I  could  forget 

That  'twas  to  thee  I  owed  the  very  breath 

Which  sentenced  thee  to  perish  !     Oh,  'tis  shameful  I 

Thou  canst  not  pardon  me  ! 

Mai.  Ad.  By  these  tears,  I  can  ! 
O  brother  !  from  this  very  hour,  a  new, 
A  glorious  life  commences  !     I  am  all  thine  ! 
Again  the  day  of  gladness  or  of  anguish 
Shall  Malek  Adhel  share  ;  and  6ft  again 
May  this  siuord  fence  thee  in  the  bloody  field. 
Henceforth,  Saladin, 
My  heart,  my  soul,  my  sword,  are  thine  forever. 

ni. 

184.     BRUTUS    AND    TITUS. 

BRUTUS.  Well,  Titus,  speak  ;  how  is  it  wifli  thee  now? 
I  would  attend  awhile  this  mighty  motion, 
Wait  till  the  tempest  were  quite  overblown, 
That  I  might  take  thee  in  the  calm  of  nature, 
With  all  thy  gentler  virtues  brooding  on  thee  : 
So  hushed  a  stillness,  as  if  all  the  gods 
Looked  down  and  listened  to  what  we  were  saying  : 
Speak,  then,  and  tell  me,  O  my  best  beloved, 
My  son,  my  Titus !  is  all  well  again  ? 

Titus.  So  well,  that  saying  how  must  make  it  nothing  : 
So  well,  that  I  could  wish  to  die  this  moment, 
For  so  my  heart,  with  powerful  throbs,  persuades  me 
That  were  indeed  to  make  you  reparation  ; 
That  were,  my  lord,  to  thank  you  home — to  die 
And  that,  for  Titus,  too,  would  be  most  h#ppy. 

Brutus.  How's  that,  my  son  ?  would  death  for  thee  be  happy  ? 

Titus.  Most  certain,  Sir  ;  for  in  my  grave  I  'scape 
All  those  affronts  which  I,  in  life,  must  look  for  ; 


BRUTUS    AND    TITUS.  50fJ 

All  those  reproaches  which  the  eyes,  the  fingers, 
And  tongues  of  Home  will  daily  cast  upon  me,— 
From  whom,  to  a  soul  so  sensible  as  mine, 
Each  single  scorn  would  be  far  worse  than  dying. 
Besides,  I  'scape  the  stings  of  my  own  conscience, 
Which  will  forever  rack  me  with  remembrance, 
Haunt  me  by  day,  and  torture  me  by  night, 
Casting  my  blotted  honor  in  the  way, 
Where'er  my  mel'ancholy  thoughts  shall  guide  me. 

Brutus.  But,  is  not  death  a  very  dreadful  thing  ? 

Titus.  Not  to  a  mind  resolved.     No,  Sir  ;  to  mo 
It  seems  as  natural  as  to  be  born. 
Groans  and  convulsions,  and  discolored  faces, 
Friends  weeping  round  us,  crapes  and  obsequies, 
Make  it  a  dreadful  thing  :  the  pomp  of  death 
Is  far  more  terrible  than  death  itself 
Yes,  Sir  ;  I  call  the  powers  of  heaven  to  witness, 
Titus  dares  die,  if  so  you  have  decreed  ; 
Nay,  he  shall  die  with  joy  to  honor  Brutus. 

Brutus.  Thou  perfect  glory  of  the  Junian  race ! 
Let  me  endear  thee  once  more  to  my  bosom  ; 
Groan  an  eternal  farewell  to  thy  soul ; 
Instead  of  tears,  weep  blood,  if  possible  ; — 
Blood,  the  heart-blood  of  Brutus,  on  his  child ! 
For  thou  must  die,  my  Titus — die,  my  son ! 
I  swear,  the  gods  have  doomed  thee  to  the  grave. 
The  violated  genius  of  thy  country 
Bares  his  sad  head,  and  passes  sentence  on  thee. 
This  morning  sun,  that  lights  thy  sorrows  on 
To  the  tribunal  of  this  horrid  vengeance, 
Shall  never  see  thee  more ! 

Titus.  Alas !  my  lord, 

Why  art  thou  moved  thus?     Why  am  I  worth  thy  sorrow ? 
Why  should  the  godlike  Brutus  shake  to  doom  me? 
Why  all  these  trappings  for  a  traitor's  hearse  ? 
The  gods  will  have  it  so. 

Brutus.  They  will,  my  Titus  ; 

Nor  heaven  nor  earth  can  have  it  otherwise. 
Nay,  Titus,  mark !  the  deeper  that  I  search, 
My  harassed  soul  returns  the  more  confirmed. 


570  NATIONAL  FIFTH   READER. 

Methinks  I  see  the  very  hand  of  Jove 
Moving  the  dreadful  wheels  of  this  affair, — 
Like  a  machine,  they  whirl  thee  to  thy  fate. 
It  seems  as  if  the  gods  had  preordained  it, 
To  fix  the  reeling  spirits  of  the  people, 
And  settle  the  loose  liberty  of  Rome. 
'Tis  fixed  ;  O,  therefore  let  not  fancy  dupe  thee ! 
So  fixed  thy  death,  that  'tis  not  in  the  power 
Of  gods  or  men  to  save  thee  from  the  ax. 

Titus.  The  ax!  O  Heaven!  must  I,  then,  fall  so  basely? 
"What !  shall  I  perish  by  the  common  hangman  ? 

Brutus.  If  thou  deny  me  this,  thou  givest  me  nothing. 
Yes,  Titus,  since  the  gods  have  so  decreed 
That  I  must  lose  thee,  I  will  take  the  advantage 
Of  thy  important  fate  ;  cement  Rome's  flaws, 
And  heal  her  wounded  freedom  with  thy  blood. 
I  will  ascend  myself  the  sad  tribunal, 
And  sit  upon  my  son — on  thee,  my  Titus  ; 
Behold  thee  suffer  all  the  shame  of  death, 
The  lictor's  lashes,  bleed  before  the  people  ; 
Then,  with  thy  hopes  and  all  thy  youth  upon  thee, 
Soe  thy  head  taken  by  the  common  ax, 
Without  a  groan,  without  one  pitying  tear 
(If  that  the  gods  can  hold  me  to  my  purpose), 
To  make  my  justice  quite  transcend  example. 

Titus.  Scourged  like  a  bondman !  Ha !  a  beaten  slave  I 
But  I  deserve  it  all :  yet,  here  I  fail ; 
The  image  of  this  suffering  quite  unmans  me. 
O  Sir!  O  Brutus!  must  I  call  you  father, 
Yet  have  no  token  of  your  tenderness — 
No  sign  of  mercy  ?     What !  not  bate  me  that  ? 
Can  you  resolve  on  all  the  extremity 
Of  cruel  rigor  ?     To  behold  me,  too — 
To  sit,  unmoved,  and  see  me  whipped  to  death — 
Is  this  a  father  ? 

Ah,  Sir,  why  should  you  make  my  heart  suspect 
That  all  your  late  compassion  was  dissembled  ? 
How  can  I  think  that  you  did  ever  love  me  ? 

Brutus.  Think  that  I  love  thee,  by  my  present  passion, 
By  these  unmanly  tears,  these  earthquakes  here  ; 


THE    PHRENSY    OF    ORRA.  571 

These  sighs,  that  twitch  the  very  strings  of  life  ; 

Think  that  no  other  cause  on  earth  could  move  me 

To  tremble  thus,  to  sob,  or  shed  a  tear, 

Nor  shake  my  solid  virtue  from  her  point, 

But  Titus'  death.     0,  do  not  call  it  shameful 

That  thus  shall  fix  the  glory  of  the  world. 

I  own  thy  suffering  ought  to  unman  me  thus, 

To  make  me  throw  my  body  on  the  ground, 

To  bellow  like  a  beast,  to  gnaw  the  earth, 

To  tear  my  hair,  to  curse  the  cruel  fates 

That  force  a  father  thus  to  kill  his  child ! 

Titus.  O,  rise,  thou  violated  majesty ! 
I  now  submit  to  all  your  threatened  vengeance. 
Come  forth,  ye  executioners  of  justice! 
Nay,  all  ye  lictors,  slaves,  and  common  hangmen 
Come,  strip  me  bare,  unrobe  me  in  his  sight, 
And  lash  me  till  I  bleed !     Whip  me,  like  furies ! 
Ajid,  when  you've  scourged  me  till  I  foam  and  fall 
For  want  of  spirits,  groveling  in  the  dust, 
Then  take  my  head,  and  give  it  to  his  justice  : 
By  all  the  gods,  I  greedily  resign  it  ?  Lee. 

Nathaniel  Lee,  an  English  dramatic  writer,  was  born  in  Hertfordshire  in 
1651.  He  received  a  classical  education  at  Westminster  school,  and  at  Trinity 
College,  Cambridge.  He  tried  the  stage  both  as  an  actor  and  author;  was  four 
years  in  bedlam  from  wild  insanity;  but  recovered  his  reason,  resumed  his 
labors  as  a  dramatist,  and  though  subject  to  fits  of  partial  derangement,  con- 
tinued to  write  till  the  end  of  his  life.  He  was  the  author  of  eleven  tragedies, 
besides  assisting  Dryden  in  the  composition  of  "(Edipns"  and  uThe  Duke  of 
Guise."  His  best  tragedies  are  the  "Rival  Queens,"  " Mithridates,"  "Theo- 
dosius,"  and  Lucius  Junius  Brutus."  He  possessed  no  small  degree  of  the  tire 
of  genius,  excelling  in  tenderness  and  genuine  passion;  but  his  style  often  de- 
generates Into  bombast  and  extravagant  phrensy,  in  part  caused  by  his  mental 
malady.    He  died  in  London  on  the  6th  of  April,  1692. 

IV. 
185.     THE    PHRENSY    OF    ORRA. 

HARTMAN.  Is  she  well  ? 
Tlicobahl  Her  body  is. 

Hart.  And  not  her  mind?     Oh,  direst  wreck  of  all! 
That  noble  mind ! — But  'tis  some  passing  seizure, 
Some  powerful  movement  of  a  transient  nature  ; 
It  is  not  madness ! 


572  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Theo.  'Tis  Heaven's  infliction  ;  let  us  call  it  so  ; 
Give  it  no  other  name. 

Eleanora.  Nay,  do  not  thus  despair  ;  when  she  beholds  us, 
She'll  know  her  friends,  and,  by  our  kindly  soothing, 
Be  gradually  restored — 

Alice.  Let  me  go  to  her. 

T)ieo.  Nay,  forbear,  I  pray  thee  ; 
I  will  myself  with  thee,  my  worthy  Hartman, 
Go  in  and  lead  her  forth. 

Orra.  Come  back,  come  back!  the  fierce  and  fiery  light! 

Theo.  Shrink  not,  dear  love !  it  is  the  light  of  day. 

Orra.  Have  cocks  crowed  yet  ? 

TJieo.  Yes  ;  twice  I've  hearxl  already 
Their  matin  sound.     Look  up  to  the  blue  sky — 
Is  it  not  daylight  ?     And  these  green  boughs 
Are  fresh  and  fragrant  round  thee  :  every  sense 
Tells  thee  it  is  the  cheerful  early  day. 

Orra.  Aye,  so  it  is  ;  day  takes  his  daily  turns, 
Rising  between  the  gulfy  dells  of  night, 
Like  whitened  billows  on  a  gloomy  sea. 
Till  glow-worms  gleam,  and  stars  peep  through  the  dark, 
And  will-o'-the  wisp  his  dancing  taper  light," 
They  will  not  come  again.  [Bending  her  ear  to  the  ground. 

Hark,  hark !  aye,  hark ! 
They  are  all  there  :  I  hear  their  hollow  sound 
Full  many  a  fathom  down. 

Theo.  Be  still,  poor  troubled  soul !  they'll  ne'er  return — 
They  are  forever  gone.     Be  well  assured 
Thou  shalt  from  henceforth  have  a  cheerful  home, 
Wim  crackling  fagots  on  thy  midnight  fire, 
Blazing  like  day  around  thee  ;  and  thy  friends — 
Thy  living,  loving  friends — still  by  thy  side, 
To  speak  to  thee  and  cheer  thee.     See,  my  Orra ! 
They  are  beside  thee  now  ;  dost  thou  not  know  them? 

Orra.  No,  no !  athwart  the  wavering,  garish  light, 
Things  move  and  seem  to  be,  and  yet  are  nothing. 

Elca.  My  gentle  Orra,  hast  thou  then  forgot  me  ? 
Dost  not  thou  know  my  voice? 

Orra.  'Tis  like  an  old  tune  to  my  ear  returned. 
For  there  be  those  who  sit  in  cheerful  halls, 


THE    PHRENSY    OF    ORRA.  573 

And  breathe  sweet  air,  and  speak  with  pleasant  sounds  ; 
And  once  I  lived  with  such  ;  some  years  gone  by, — 
I  wot  not  now  how  long. 

Hughobcrt.  Keen  words  that  rend  my  heart :  thouhadstahome, 
And  one  whose  faith  was  pledged  for  thy  protection. 

Urston.  Be  more  composed,  my  lord  ;  some  faint  remembrance 
Returns  upon  her  with  the  well-known  sound 
Of  voices  once  familiar  to  her  ear. 
Let  Alice  sing  to  her  some  favorite  tune 
That  may  lost  thoughts  recall.  [Alice  sings. 

Orra.  Ha,  ha !  the  witched  air  sings  for  thee  bravely. 
Hoot  owls  through  mantling  fog  for  matin  birds  ? 
It  lures  not  me. — I  know  thee  well  enough  : 
The  bones  of  murdered  men  thy  measure  beat, 
And  lleshless  heads  nod  to  thee. — Off,  I  say! 
Why  are  ye  here  ?     That  is  the  blessed  sun. 

Elca.  Ah,  Orra !  do  not  look  upon  us  thus  : 
These  are  the  voices  of  thy  loving  friends 
That  speak  to  thee  ;  this  is  a  friendly  hand 
That  presses  thine  so  kindly. 

Hart.  Oh,  grievous  state  !  what  terror  seizes  thee  ? 

Orra.  Take  it  away !     It  was  the  swathed  dead  ; 
I  know  its  clammy,  chill,  and  bony  touch. 
Come  not  again  ;  I'm  strong  and  terrible  now  : 
Mine  eyes  have  looked  upon  all  dreadful  things  ; 
And  when  the  earth  yawns,  and  the  hell-blast  sounds, 
I'll  bide  the  trooping  of  unearthly  steps, 
"With  stiff,  clenched,  terrible  strength. 

Hugh.  A  murderer  is  a  guiltless  wretch  to  me. 

Hart.  Be  patient  ;  'tis  a  momentary  pitch  ; 
Let  me  encounter  it. 

Orra.  Take  off  from  me  thy  strangely  fastened  eye  ; 
1  may  not  look  upon  thee — yet  I  must. 
Unfix  thy  baleful  glance.     Art  thou  a  snake  ? 
Something  of  horrid  power  within  thee  dwells. 
Still,  still  that  powerful  eye  doth  suck  me  in, 
Like  a  dark  eddy  to  its  wheeling  core. 
Spare  me !  oh  spare  me,  Being  of  strange  power, 
And  at  thy  feet  my  subject  head  I'll  lay. 

Elea.  Alas,  the  piteous  sight !  to  see  her  thus, 


574  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

The  noble,  generous,  playful,  stately  Orra ! 

Theo.  Out  on  thy  hateful  and  ungenerous  guile ! 
Tliink'st  thou  I'll  suffer  o'er  her  wretched  state 
The  slightest  shadow  of  a  base  control  ? 

[Raising  Ore  a.  from  the  ground. 
No  ;  rise,  thou  stately  flower  with  rude  blasts  rent  : 
As  honored  art  thou  with  thy  broken  stem 
And  leaflets  strewed,  as  in  thy  summer's  pride. 
I've  seen  thee  worshiped  like  a  regal  dame, 
With  every  studied  form  of  marked  devotion, 
Whilst  I,  in  distant  silence,  scarcely  proffered 
Even  a  plain  soldier's  courtesy  ;  but  now, 
No  liege  man  to  his  crowned  mistress  sworn, 
Bound  and  devoted  is  as  I  to  thee  ; 
And  he  who  offers  to  thy  altered  state 
The  slightest  seeming  of  diminished  reverence, 
Must  in  my  blood — [To  Haetman].    Oh  pardon  me,  my  friend! 
Thou'st  wrung  my  heart. 

Hart.  Nay,  do  thou  pardon  me, — I  am  to  blame  : 
Thy  noble  heart  shall  not  again  be  wrung. 
But  what  can  now  be  done  ?     O'er  such  wild  ravings 
There  must  be  some  control. 

Theo.  O  none !  none !  none  !  but  gentle  sympathy, 
And  watchfulness  of  love. — My  noble  Orra ! 
Wander  where'er  thou  wilt,  thy  vagrant  steps 
Shall  followed  be  by  one  who  shall  not  weary, 
Nor  e'er  detach  him  from  his  hopeless  task  ; 
Bound  to  thee  now  as  fairest,  gentlest  beauty 
Could  ne'er  have  bound  him. 

Alice.  See  how  she  gazes  on  him  with  a  look, 
Subsiding  gradually  to  softer  sadness, 
Half  saying  that  she  knows  him. 

Elca.  There  is  a  kindness  in  her  changing  eye.        Baillie. 

Joanna  Baillie  was  born  in  1762,  at  Bothwell,  in  Lanark,  Scotland,  of  which 
place  her  father  was  the  parish  minister.  She  removed  to  London  at  an  early 
age,  and  resided  in  that  city,  or  its  neighborhood,  almost  constantly.  Her  first 
volume  of  dramas,  "  Plays  of  the  Passions,"  was  published  in  1798,  her  second 
in  1802,  her  third  in  1812,  and  her  fourth  in  1836.  A  volume  of  her  miscellaneous 
poems,  of  which  some  of  the  small  ones  are  exceedingly  good,  appeared  in 
1841.  Her  tragedies,  though  not  well  adapted  to  the  stage,  are  fine  poems, 
noble  in  sentiment,  and  classical  and  vigorous  in  language.  Scott  numbered 
the  description  of  Orra's  madness  with  the  sublimest  scenes  ever  written,  and 
compared  the  language  to  Shakspeare's.     She  died  at  Hampstead  in  Feb..  1841, 


MILTON.  575 


SECTION    XXXVII. 

L 

186.     MILTON. 

PART   FIRST. 

WE  venture  to  say,  paradoxical '  as  the  remark  may  appear, 
that  no  poet  has  ever  had  to  struggle  with  more  unfavora- 
ble cir'cumstances  than  Milton.  He  doubted,  as  he  has  himself 
owned,  whether  he  had  not  been  born  "  an  age  too  late."  For 
this  notion  Johnson  has  thought  lit  to  make  him  the  butt  of  his 
clumsy  ridicule.  The  poet,  we  believe,  understood  the  nature  of 
his  art  better  than  the  critic.  He  knew  that  his  poetical  genius 
derived  no  advantage  from  the  civilization  which  surrounded 
him,  or  from  the  learning  which  he  had  acquired  ;  and  he 
looked  back  with  something  like  regret  to  the  ruder  age  of 
simple  words  and  vivid  impressions. 

2.  "We  think  that  as  civilization  advances,  poetry  almost  nec- 
essarily declines.  Therefore,  though  we  admire  those  great 
works  of  imagination  which  have  appeared  in  dark  ages,  we  do 
not  admire  them  the  more  because  they  have  appeared  in  dark 
ages.  On  the  contrary,  we  hold  that  the  most  wonderful  and 
splendid  proof  of  genius  is  a  great  poem  produced  in  a  civilized 
age.  We  can  not  understand  why  those  who  believe  in  that 
most  orthodox  article  of  literary  faith,  that  the  earliest  poets  are 
generally  the  best,  should  wonder  at  the  rule  as  if  it  were  the 
exception.  Surely  the  uniformity  of  the  phenomenon  indicates 
a  corresponding  uniformity  in  the  cause. 

3.  He  who,  in  an  enlightened  and  literary  society,  aspires  to 
be  a  great  poet,  must  first  become  a  little  child.  He  must  take 
to  pieces  the  whole  web  of  his  mind.  He  must  unlearn  much 
of  that  knowledge  which  has,  perhaps,  constituted  hitherto  his 
chief  title  of  superiority.  His  very  talents  will  be  a  hinderance 
to  him.  His  difficulties  will  be  proportioned  to  his  proficiency 
in  the  pursuits  which  are  fashionable  among  his  contemporaries; 
and  that  proficiency  will  in  general  be  proportioned  to  the  vigor 
and  activity  of  his  mind.     And  it  is  well,  if,  after  all  his  saeri- 


1  Parx  a  d&x'  ic  al,  seemingly  absurd ;   inclined  to  tenets  contrary  to 
received  opinions. 


576  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

fices  and  exertions,  his  works  do  not  resemble  a  lisping  man  or 
a  modern  ruin.  We  have  seen,  in  our  own  time,  great  talents, 
intense  labor,  and  long  meditation  employed  in  this  struggle 
against  the  spirit  of  the  age  ;  and  employed,  we  will  not  say  ab- 
solutely in  vain,  but  with  dubious  success  and  feeble  applause. 

4.  If  these  reasonings  be  just,  no  poet  has  ever  triumphed 
over  greater  difficulties  than  Milton.  He  received  a  learned 
education.  He  was  a  profound  and  elegant  classical  scholar  :  he 
had  studied  all  the  mysteries  of  Rabbinical 1  literature  :  he  was 
intimately  acquainted  with  every  language  of  modern  Europe, 
from  which  either  pleasure  or  information  was  then  to  be  de- 
rived. He  was,  perhaps,  the  only  great  poet  of  later  times  who 
has  been  distinguished  by  the  excellence  of  his  Latin  verse. 

5.  It  is  not  our  intention  to  attempt  any  thing  like  a  complete 
examination  of  the  poetry  of  Milton.  The  public  has  long  been 
agreed  as  to  the  merit  of  the  most  remarkable  passages,  the  in- 
com'parable  harmony  of  the  numbers,  and  the  excellence  of  that 
style  which  no  rival  has  been  able  to  equal,  and  no  parodist2  to 
degrade  ;  which  displays  in  their  highest  perfection  the  idiom- 
atic 3  powers  of  the  English  tongue,  and  to  which  every  ancient 
and  every  modern  language  has  contributed  something  of  grace, 
of  energy,  or  of  music.  In  the  vast  field  of  criticism  in  which 
we  are  entering,  innumerable  reapers  have  already  put  their 
sickles.  Yet  the  harvest  is  so  abundant  that  the  negligent  search 
of  a  straggling  gleaner  may  be  rewarded  with  a  sheaf.    . 

6.  The  most  striking  characteristic  of  the  poetry  of  Milton  is 
the  extreme  remoteness  of  the  associations  by  means  of  which  it 
acts  on  the  reader.  Its  effect  is  produced,  not  so  much  by  what 
it  expresses  as  by  what  it  suggests  ;  not  so  much  by  the  ideas 
which  it  directly  conveys,  as  by  other  ideas  which  are  connected 
with  them.  He  electrifies  the  mind  through  conductors.  The 
most  unimaginative  man  must  understand  the  "  Iliad."  Homer 
gives  him  no  choice,  and  requires  from  him  no  exerticn  ;  but 
takes  the  whole  upon  himself,  and  sets  his  images  in  so  clear  a 
light  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  blind  to  them.  The  works  of 
Milton  can  not  be  comprehended  or  enjoyed,  unless  the  mind  of 

1  Rab  bin'  ic  al,  pertaining  to  Rab-  which  poetry  written  on  one  subject 

bins,  or  Jewish  doctors  of  the  law.  is  applied  to  another. 

a  PaVo  dist,  one  who  makes  slight  8  Idv  i  o  mat'  ic,   peculiar    to    the 

alterations,   ironical  or  jocular,   by  structure  of  a  language. 


MILTON.  577 

the  reader  cooperate  with  that  of  the  writer.  He  dues  not  paint 
a  finished  picture,  or  play  for  a  mere  passive  listener.  He 
sketches,  and  leaves  others  to  fill  up  the  outline.  He  strikes 
the  key-note,  and  expects  his  hearer  to  make  out  the  melody. 

7.  We  often  hear  of  the  magical  influence  of  poetry.  The 
expression  in  general  means  nothing  ;  but,  applied  to  the  writ- 
ings of  Milton,  it  is  most  appropriate.  It is  poetry  arts  like  an 
incantation.  Its  merit  lies  less  in  its  obvious  meaning  than  in 
its  occult1  power.  There  would  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be  no 
more  in  his  words  than  in  other  words.  But  they  are  words  of 
enchantment ;  no  sooner  arc  they  pronounced  than  the  past,  is 
present,  and  the  distant  near.  New  forms  of  beauty  start  at 
once  into  existence,  and  all  the  burial-places  of  the  memory  give 
up  their  dead.  Change  the  structure  of  the  sentence,  substitute 
one  synonym a  for  another,  and  the  whole  effect  is  destroyed. 
The  spell  loses  its  power  ;  and  he  who  should  then  hope  to  con- 
jure' with  it  would  find  himself  as  much  mistaken  as  Cassim  in 
the  Arabian  tale,  when  he  stood  crying  "Open  Wheat/'  "Open 
Barley,"  to  the  door  which  obeyed  no  sound  but  "  Open  Sesa- 
me!"3 The  miserable  failure  of  Dryden,  in  his  attempt  to 
re-write  some  parts  of  the  "Paradise  Lost,"  is  a  remarkable 
instance  of  this. 

n. 

187.     MILTON. 

PART    SECOND. 

THE  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distinguished  by 
loftiness  of  thought.  He  had  survived  his  health  and  his 
sight,  the  comforts  of  his  home  and  the  prosperity  of  his  party. 
Of  the  great  men  by  whom  he  had  been  distinguished  ;it  his 
entrance  into  life,  some  had  been  taken  awav  from  the  evil  to 
come  ;  some  had  carried  into  foreign  climates  their  unconquer- 
able hatred  of  oppression  ;  some  were  pining  in  dungeons  ;  and 
some  had  poured  forth  their  blood  on  scaffolds.  That  hateful 
proscription,  facetiously  termed  the  Act  of  Indemnity  and  Ob- 

1  Oc  cult',  invisible  :  concealed  other,  or  which  have  very  nearly 
from  the  eye  or  understanding.  the  Bame  signification. 

2  Syn'  o  nym,  one  of  two  or  more  3Ses'ame.Mi  tin:  an  herb- 
words  in  the  same  language  which  like  plant  from  the  seeds  oi  which 
are  the  precise  equivalents  of  each  oil  is  expressed. 


578  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

livion,  had  set  a  mark  on  the  poor,  blind,  deserted  poet,  and 
held  him  up  by  name  to  the  hatred  of  a  profligate  court  and  an 
inconstant  people ! 

2.  Venal  arid  licentious  scribblers,  with  just  sufficient  talent  to 
clothe  the  thoughts  of  a  pander  in  the  style  of  a  bellman,  were 
now  the  favorite  writers  of  the  sovereign  (suv'er  in)  and  the 
public.  It  was  a  loathsome  herd,  which  could  be  compared  to 
nothing  so  fitly  as  to  the  rabble  of  Comus, — grotesque'  monsters, 
half-bestial,  half-human,  dropping  with  wine,  bloated  with  glut- 
tony, and  reeling  in  obscene  dances.  Amidst  these  his  Muse 
was  placed,  like  the  chaste  lady  of  the  Masque,  lofty,  spotless, 
and  serene — to  be  chatted  at,  and  pointed  at,  and  grinned  at 
by  the  whole  rabble  of  Satyrs  and  Goblins. 

3.  If  ever  despondency  and  asperity  could  be  excused  in  any 
man,  it  might  have  been  excused  in  Milton.  But  the  strength 
of  his  mind  overcame  every  calamity.  Neither  blindness,  nor 
gout,  nor  age,  nor  penury,  nor  domestic  afflictions,  nor  political 
disappointments,  nor  abuse,  nor  proscription,  nor  neglect,  had 
power  to  disturb  his  sedate  and  majestic  patience.  His  spirits 
do  not  seem  to  have  been  high,  but  they  were  singularly  equa- 
ble. His  temper  was  serious,  perhaps  stern  ;  but  it  was  a  tem- 
per which  no  sufferings  could  render  sullen  or  fretful.  Such 
it  was  when,  on  the  eve  of  great  events,  he  returned  from  his 
travels,  in  the  prime  of  health  and  manly  beauty,  loaded  with 
literary  distinctions,  and  glowing  with  patriotic  hopes  :  such  it 
continued  to  be  when,  after  having  experienced  every  calamity 
which  is  incident  to  our  nature,  old,  poor,  sightless,  and  dis- 
graced, he  retired  to  his  hovel  to  die ! 

4.  His  public  conduct  was  such  as  was  to  be  expected  from  a 
man  of  a  spirit  so  high  and  an  intellect  so  powerful.  He  lived 
at  one  of  the  most  memorable  eras  in  the  history  of  mankind ; 
at  the  very  crisis  of  the  great  conflict  between  liberty  and  des- 
potism, reason  and  prejudice.  That  great  battle  was  fought  for 
no  single  generation,  for  no  single  land.  The  destinies  of  tho 
human  race  were  staked  on  the  same  cast  with  the  freedom  of  tho 
English  people.  Then  were  first  proclaimed  those  mighty  prin- 
ciples which  have  since  worked  their  way  into  the  depths  of  the 
American  forests  ;  which  have  roused  Greece  from  the  slavery 
and  degradation  of  two  thousand  years  ;  and  which,  from  one 
end  of  Europe  to  the  other,  have  kindled  an  unquenchable  fire 


MILTON.  579 

in  the  hearts  of  the  oppressed,  and  loosed  the  knees  of  the  op- 
pressors with  a  strange  and  unwonted  fear ! 

5.  We  must  conclude.  And  yet  we  can  scarcely  tear  our- 
selves away  from  the  subject.  The  days  immediately  following 
the  publication  of  this  relic  of  Milton  '  appear  to  be  peculiarly  set 
apart  and  consecrated  to  his  memory.  And  we  shall  scarcely  be 
censured  if,  on  this  his  festival,  we  be  found  lingering  near  his 
shrine,  how  worthless  soever  may  be  the  offering  which  wre 
bring  to  it.  While  this  book  lies  on  our  table,  we  seem  to  be 
contemporaries  of  the  great  poet.  We  are  transported  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  back.  We  can  almost  fancy  that  we  arc 
visiting  him  in  his  small  lodging  ;  that  we  see  him  sitting  at  the 
old  organ  beneath  the  faded  green  hangings  ;  that  we  can  catch 
the  quick  twinkle  of  his  eyes  rolling  in  vain  to  find  the  day  ;  that 
we  are  reading  in  the  lines  of  his  noble  countenance  the  proud 
and  mournful  history  of  his  glory  and  his  affliction ! 

G.  We  image  to  ourselves  the  breathless  silence  in  which  we 
should  listen  to  his  slightest  word  ;  the  passionate  veneration 
with  which  we  should  kneel  to  kiss  his  hand,  and  weep  upon  it; 
the  earnestness  with  which  we  should  endeavor  to  console  him,  if, 
indeed,  such  a  spirit  could  need  consolation,  for  the  neglect  of  an 
age  unworthy  of  his  talents  and  his  virtues  ;  the  eagerness  with 
which  we  should  contest  with  his  daughters,  or  with  his  Quaker 
friend,  Elwood,  the  privilege  of  reading  Homer  to  him,  or  of 
taking  down  the  immortal  accents  which  flowed  from  his  lips. 

7.  These  are,  perhaps,  foolish  feelings.  Yet  we  can  not  be 
ashamed  of  them  ;  nor  shall  we  be  sorry  if  what  we  have  written 
shall,  in  any  degree,  excite  them  in  other  minds.  We  are  not 
much  in  the  habit  of  idolizing  either  the  living  or  the  dead. 
And  we  think  that  there  is  no  mure  certain  indication  of  a  weak 
and  ill-regulated  intellect  than  that  propensity  which,  for  want 
of  a  better  name,  we  will  venture  to  christen  Bosicellism.1  But 
there  are  a  few  characters  which  have  stood  the  closest  scrutiny 
and  the  severest  tests,  which  have  been  tried  in  the  furnace  and 
have  proved  pure  ;  which  have  been  weighed  in  the  balance, 
and  have  not  been  found  wanting  ;  which  have  been  declared 
sterling  by  the  general  consent  of  mankind,  and  which  are  visibly 
stamped  with  the  image  and  superscription  of  the  Most  High. 

1  Relic  of  Milton.     "  A  Treatise     from  the  Holy  Scriptures  alone." 
on  the  Christian  Doctrine,  compiled        '  B5s'  well  ism,  see  p.  210. 


580  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

8.  These  great  men  we  trust  that  we  know  how  to  prize  ;  and 
of  these  was  Milton.  The  sight  of  his  books,  the  sound  of  his 
name,  are  refreshing  to  us.  His  thoughts  resemble  those  celes- 
tial fruits  and  flowers  which  the  Virgin  Martyr  of  Massinger ' 
sent  down  from  the  gardens  of  Paradise  to  the  earth,  distin- 
guished from  the  productions  of  other  soils,  not  only  by  their 
superior  bloom  and  sweetness,  but  by  their  miraculous  efficacy 
to  invigorate  and  to  heal.  They  are  powerful,  not  only  to  delight, 
but  to  elevate  and  purify. 

9.  Nor  do  we  envy  the  man  who  can  study  either  the  life  or 
the  writings  of  the  great  poet  and  patriot  without  aspiring  to 
emulate,  not  indeed  the  sublime  works  with  which  his  genius  has 
enriched  our  literature,  but  the  zeal  with  which  he  labored  for 
the  public  good,  the  fortitude  with  which  he  endured  every 
private  calamity,  the  lofty  disdain  with  which  he  looked  down 
on  temptation  and  dangers,  the  deadly  hatred  which  he  bore  to 
bigots  and  tyrants,  and  the  faith  which  he  so  sternly  kept  with 
his  country  and  with  his  fame.  T.  B.  Macaulay. 

ILL 

188.     SATAN'S    ENCOUNTER    WITH    DEATH. 

BLACK  it  stood  as  night, 
Fierce  as  ten  furies,  terrible  as  hell, 
And  shook  a  dreadful  dart :  what  seemed  his  head, 
The  likeness  of  a  kingly  crown  had  on. 
Satan  was  now  at  hand  ;  and  from  his  seat 
The  monster  moving  onward  came  as  fast, 
"With  horrid  strides  ;  hell  trembled  as  he  strode. 
The  undaunted  iiend  what  this  might  be  admired — 
Admired,  not  feared  :  God  .and  his  Son  except, 
Created  thing  naught  valued  he,  nor  shunned  ; 
And  with  disdainful  look  thus  first  began  : — 

2.  "  Whence,  and  what  art  thou,  execrable  shape  ! 
That  darest,  though  grim  and  terrible,  advance 

1  Philip   Massinger,   one   of  the  preserved.     The  "  Virgin   Martyr," 

very  best  of  the  old  English  drama-  the  "  Bondman,"  the  "  Fatal  Dowry," 

tists,  was  born  in  1584,  and  died  in  "  The  City  Madam,"  and  "  A  New 

1640.     He  wrote  a  great  number  of  Way  to  Pay  Old  Debts,"  are  his  best 

pieces,  of  which  eighteen  have  been  known  productions. 


SATAN'S  ENCOUNTEH  WITH  DEATH.        581 

Thy  miscreated  front  athwart  my  way 
To  yonder  gates?     Through  them  I  mean  to  jmss, 
That  be  assured,  without  leave  asked  of  thee  : 
Retire,  or  taste  thy  folly  ;  and  learn  by  proof, 
Hellborn!  not  to  contend  with  spirits  of  heaven  1" 

3.  To  whom  the  goblin,  full  of  wrath  replied  : — 
"Art  thou  that  traitor  angel,  art  thou  he, 

"Who  first  broke  peace  in  heaven,  and  faith,  till  then 

Unbroken,  and  in  proud  rebellious  arms 

Drew  after  him  the  third  part  of  heaven's  sons, 

Conjured  against  the  Highest  ;  for  which  both  thou 

And  they,  outcast  from  God,  are  here  condemned 

To  Waste  eternal  days  in  woe  and  pain? 

And  reckon'st  thou  thyself  with  spirits  of  heave  n, 

Hell-doomed !  and  breathest  defiance  here  and  scorn, 

"Where  I  reign  king,  and,  to  enrage  thee  more, 

Thy  king  and  lord  !     Back  to  thy  punishment, 

False  fugitive!  and  to  thy  speed  add  wings  ; 

Lest  with  a  whip  of  scorpions  I  pursue 

Thy  lingering,  or  with  one  stroke  of  this  dart 

Strange  horror  saize  thoe,  and  pangs  unfelt  before." 

4.  So  spake  the  grisly  terror  :  and  in  shape, 

So  speaking,  and  so  threatening,  grew  ten-fold 
More  dreadful  and  deform  :  on  the  other  side, 
Incensed  with  indignation,  Satan  stood 
Unterrified,  and  like  a  comet  burned, 
That  fires  the  length  of  Ophiuchus1  huge 
In  the  Arctic  sky,  and  from  his  horrid  hair 
Shakes  pestilence*  and  war. 

5.  Each  at  the  head 
Leveled  his  deadly  aim  ;  their  fatal  hands 
No  second  stroke  intend  ;  and  such  a  frown 
Each  cast  at  the  other,  as  when  two  black  clouds, 
With  heaven's  artillery  fraught,  come  rattling  on 
Over  the  Caspian  ;  then  stand  front  to  front 
Hovering  a  space,  till  winds  the  signal  blow 

To  join  their  dark  encounter  in  mid  air  : 

1  Ophiuchus,  (6fMii'kus\  the  Serpent-bearer;    a  cluster  of  fixed  stars 
whose  center  is  nearly  over  the  equator,  opposite  to  Orion. 


582  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

So  frowned  the  mighty  com'batants,  that  hell 

Grew  darker  at  their  frown  ;  so  matched  they  stood  ; 

For  never  but  once  more  was  either  like 

To  meet  so  great  a  Foo  :  and  now  great  deeds 

Had  been  achieved,  whereof  all  hell  had  rung, 

Had  not  the  snaky  sorceress  that  sat 

Fast  by  hell-gate  and  kept  the  fatal  key, 

Risen,  and  with  hideous  outcry  rushed  between. 

John  Milton. 
JonN  Milton,  one  of  the  greatest  of  all  poets  and  scholars,  was  born  in  London 
on  the  9th  of  December,  1G08.  His  father,  liberally  educated  and  from  a  good 
family,  having  been  disinherited  for  embracing  Protestantism,  became  a  scriv- 
ener, and  acquired  a  competent  fortune.  The  tirmness  and  the  sufferings  of  the 
father  for  conscience'  sake  were  not  lost  upon  the  son,  who  became  a  stern,  un- 
bending champion  of  religious  freedom.  Milton  was  educated  with  great  care. 
He  studied  ancient  and  modern  languages,  delighted  in  poetical  reading,  and 
cultivated  the  musical  taste  which  he  inherited  from  his  father.  At  fifteen  he 
was  sent  to  St.  Paul's  School,  London,  and  two  years  later  to  Christ's  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  graduated  in  due  course.  He  wro*te  several  poems  at  an 
early  age.  His  "  Hymn  on  the  Nativity,"  composed  in  his  twent}*-first  year,  is 
one  of  the  noblest  of  his  works,  and  perhaps  the  finest  lyric  in  the  English  lan- 
guage. Leaving  the  university  in  1632,  he  went  to  the  house  of  his  father,  at 
Hutton  in  Buckinghamshire,  where  he  lived  five  j'ears,  studying  classical  litera- 
ture and  writing  poems.  During  this  happy  period  of  his  life  he  wrote  "  L' Alle- 
gro," "II  Penseroso,"  "Arcades,"  "Lycidas,"  and  "Comus."  In  1638  the  poet 
visited  the  Continent,  where  he  remained  fifteen  months,  principally  in  Italy 
and  France.  His  study  of  the  works  of  art  during  this  period  probably  sug- 
gested some  of  his  best  poetical  creations.  On  his  return  to  England  in  1639  he 
took  up  his  residence  in  London.  The  next  twenty  years,  during  the  Civil  War, 
the  Commonwealth,  and  the  Protectorate,  the  poet's  lyre  was  mute.  A  Repub- 
lican in  politics  and  an  Independent  in  religion,  during  this  stormy  period  ho 
threw  himself  promptly  and  fearlessly  into  the  vortex  of  the  struggle,  and,  as  a 
controversialist,  enrolled  his  name  among  the  noblest  and  most  eloquent  of  tho 
writers  of  old  English  prose.  In  1643  Milton  married  Mary  Powell,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  high  cavalier  of  Oxfordshire.  In  1649  he  was  appointed  Foreign  or  Latin 
Secretary  to  the  Council  of  State,  and  retained  the  same  position  during  the  Pro- 
tectorate. For  ten  years  his  eyesight  had  been  failing,  when,  in  1652,  he  became 
totally  blind.  About  the  same  period  his  first  wife  died,  but  he  married  soon 
after.  His  second  wife,  Catharine  Woodcock,  died  in  1656.  The  Restoration 
of  1660  consigned  the  poet,  for  the  last  fourteen  years  of  his  life,  to  an  obscurity 
"which  gave  him  leisure  to  complete  the  mighty  poetical  task  which  was  to  se- 
cure him  an  immortality  of  literary  fame.  In  1664  he  married  his  third  wife, 
Elizabeth  Minshul,  of  a  good  Cheshire  family.  In  1665  he  completed  "  Para- 
dise Lost,"  which  was  first  published  in  1667.  In  1671  appeared  the  "  Paradise 
Regained,"  to  which  was  subjoined  "Samson  Agonistes."  He  died  on  the  Sth 
of  November,  1674.  For  a  further  description  of  Milton  and  his  poetry,  the 
reader  is  referred  to  the  two  exercises  immediately  preceding  the  above. 


MURDER    OF    KING    DUNCAN.  583 

IV. 

ISO.     TIIE    DYING    CHRISTIAN    TO    HIS    SOUL.1 

YITAL  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  oh !  quit  this  mortal  frame ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, — 
Oh  the  pain — the  bliss  of  dying ! 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life ! 

2.  Hark  !  they  whisper  :  angels  say, 
"Sister  spirit,  come  away  !" 
What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, — 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? — 
Tell  me,  my  soul!  can  this  be  death? 

3.  The  world  recedes — it  disappears  ; 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  ;  my  ears 
With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 

Lend,  lend  your  wings  !     I  mount,  I  fly  I 

O  Grave !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death !  where  is  thy  sting  ?         Alexandteb  Pope. 


SECTION    XXXVIII. 

L 

190.     MURDER    OF    KING    DUNCAN. 

MACBETH.2  Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me, 
The  handle  toward  my  hand  ?  Come,  let  me  clutch  thee. — 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight?  or  art  thou  but 

Expression,  in  the  delivery  of  confidence  of  the  hopeful  Christian, 
this  exquisite  little  poem,  the  reader         'Macbeth',    afterward    king   of 

must  bear  in  mind,  requires  the  con-  Scotland,  prompted  by  ambition,  an  1 

tinued  production  of  the  feeble  and  urged  on   by   his   wife,   resolves    to 

failing  tone  of  the  dying  man,  while  murder   the   king,   then    his  guest, 

conveying  the   perfect,  enthusiastic  and  seize  the  crown. 


584:  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

A  dagger  of  the  mind  ;  a  false  creation, 

Proceeding  from  the  heat  oppressed  brain? 

I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 

As  this  which  now  I  draw. 

Thou  marshal' st  me  the  way  that  1  was  going ; 

And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fool  o'  th'  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest.     I  see  thee  ntill ; 

And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon,  gouts  of  blood, 

Which  was  not  so  before. — There's  no  such  tiring'  i 

It  is  the  bloody  business,  which  informs 

Thus  to  mine  eyes. 

Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 
Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 
The  curtained  sleep  :  now  witchcraft  celebrates 
Pale  Hec'ate's  offerings  ;  and  withered  murden 
Alarumed  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 
Whose  howl's  his  watch,  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 
WTith  Tarquin's '  ravishing  strides,  toward  his  desigj* 
Moves  like  a  ghost. — Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 
Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 
Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  where-about, 
xind  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time, 
Which  now  suits  with  it.     While  I  threat  he  lives  ; 
Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  to  cold  breath  gives.     [A  bell  ring? 
I  go,  and  it  is  done  ;  the  bell  invites  me  : 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan  ;  for  it  is  a  knell 

That  summons  thee  to  heaven,  or  to  hell.  [Exit. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 
Lady  M.  That  which  hath  made  them  drunk,  hath  made  me 
bold  : 
What  hath  quenched  them,  hath  given  me  fire. — Hark ! — peace' 
It  was  the  owl  that  shrieked,  the  fatal  bellman, 
Which  gives  the  sternest  good-night.     He  is  about  it — 
The  doors  are  open  ;  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores  :  I  have  drugged  their  possets, 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 

1  Tar'  quin,  two  kings  of  Rome  :  tained  the  throne  by  the  murder  of 
L.TarquiniusSuperbus,  here  alluded  Servius  Tullius,  whose  daughter, 
to,  seventh  in  the  line  of  kings,  ob-     Tullia,  he  had  married. 


MURDER    OF    KING    DUNCAN.  585 

Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Macbeth  [within."]  Who's  there? — what,  ho! 

Lady  M.  Alack !  I  am  afraid  they  have  awaked, 
And  'tis  not  done.     The  attempt,  and  not  the  deed, 
Confounds  u s.     Hark ! — I  laid  their  daggers  ready  ; 
He  could  not  miss  them. — Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  don't. — My  husband ! 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Macb.  I've  done  the  deed ! — didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 

Lady  M.  I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  cricket's  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Macb.  "  When  ? 

Lady  M.  Now. 

Mwb.  As  I  descended? 

Lady  M.  Aye. 

Macb.  Hark! — 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber? 

Lady  M.  Donalbain. 

Macb.  This  is  a  sorry  sight.  [Looking  on  his  hands*. 

Lady  31.  A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macb.  There's  one  did  laugh  in's  sleep,  and  one  cried,  Murder  ! 
That  they  did  wake  each  other  ;  I  stood  and  heard  them  ; 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  addressed  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  31.  There  are  two  lodged  together. 

Macb.  One  cried,  God  bless  us!  and  Amen  !  the  other  ; 
As  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands 
Listening  their  fear.     I  could  not  say,  Amen, 
When  they  did  say,  God  bless  us. 

Lady  M.  Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macb.  But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce,  Amen? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  amen 

Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  M.  These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways  ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

3Iacb.  Me  thought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  Sleep  no  more! 
Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep — the  innocent  sleep — 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  raveled  sleeve  of  care, 
Tlie  death  of  each  days  life,  sore  laboi-'s  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature's  second  c'urse, 


586  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

Chief  n&itrisher  in  life's  feast : — 

Lady  M.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macb.  Still  it  cried,  Sleep  no  more,  to  all  the  house  ; 
Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep  ;  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more — Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more  ! 

Lady  M.  Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?     Why,  worthy  thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength,  to  think 
So  brain-sickly  of  things.     Go,  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. — 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 
They  must  lie.     Go,  carry  them,  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macb.  I'll  go  no  more  : 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done  : 
Look  on't  again,  I  dare  not. 

Lady  M.  Infirm  of  purpose ! 

Give  me  the  daggers.     The  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures :  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
111  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal, 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt.  [Exit.     Knocking  within* 

Macb.  Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 

How  is't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appalls  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here  ? — Ha !  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes ! 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hands  ?     No  :  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine," l 
Making  the  green — one  red. 

Beenter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  31.  My  hands  are  of  your  color  ;  but  I  shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.     [Knocking.']     I  hear  a  knocking 
At  the  south  entry.     Retire  we  to  our  chamber  : 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed  : 
How  easy  is  it,  then?     Your  constancy' 

Hath  left  you  unattended.    [Knocking.]    Hark!  more  knocking  : 
Get  on  your  night-gowrn,  lest  occasion  call  us, 
And  show  us  to  be  watchers.     Be  not  lost 

So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 



1  Incarnadine,   (in  kur'  na  din),  to         a  Con'  stan  cy,  fixedness  or  Urin- 
staln  rod,  or  of  a  flesh-color.  ness  of  mind  ;  resolution. 


THE    KNOCKING    AT    THE    GATE,    IN    MACBETH.       £S7 

Macb.  To  know  my  deed, — 'twere  best  not  know  myself. 

[Knocking. 

Wake  Duncan  with  thy  knocking !     I  would  thou  couldst. 

n. 

191.  THE  KNOCKING  AT  THE  GATE,  IN  MACBETH. 

FROM  my  boyish  days  I  had  always  felt  a  great  perplexity  0:1 
one  point  in  Macbeth'.  It  was  this  :  the  knocking  at  the 
gate,  which  succeeds  to  the  murder  of  Duncan,  produced  to 
my  feelings  an  effect  for  which  I  never  could  account.  The 
effect  was,  that  it  reflected  back  upon  the  murder  a  peculiar 
awfulness  and  a  depth  of  solemnity  ;  yet,  however  obstinately 
I  endeavored  wifh  my  understanding  to  comprehend  this,  for 
many  years  I  never  could  see  why  it  should  produce  such  an 
effect.  Hero  I  pause  for  one  moment,  to  exhort  the  reader 
never  to  pay  any  attention  to  his  understanding  when  it  stands 
in  opposition  to  any  other  faculty  of  his  mind.  The  mere  un- 
derstanding, however  useful  and  indispensable,  is  the  meanest 
faculty  in  tho  human  mind,  and  the  most  to  be  distrusted  ;  and 
yet  the  great  majority  of  people  trust  to  nothing  else  ;  which 
may  do  for  ordinary  life,  but  not  for  philosophical  purposes. 

2.  My  understanding  could  furnish  no  reason  why  the  knock- 
ing at  the  gate  in  Macbeth  should  produce  any  effect,  direct  or 
reflected.  In  fact,  my  understanding  said  positively  that  it 
could  not  produce  any  effect.  But  I  knew  better  :  I  felt  that  it 
did  ;  and  I  waited  and  clung  to  the  problem  until  further  knowl- 
edge should  enable  me  to  solve  it.  At  length  I  solved  it  to  my 
own  satisfaction,  and  my  solution  is  this  :  Murder  in  ordinary- 
cases,  where  the  sympathy  is  wholly  directed  to  the  case  of  the 
murdered  person,  is  an  incident  of  coarse  and  vulgar  horror; 
and  for  this  reason,  that  it  flings  the  interest  exclusively  upon 
the  natural  but  ignoble  instinct  bv  which  we  cleave  to  life  ;  an 
instinct  which,  as  being  indispensable  to  the  primal  law  of  self- 
preservation,  is  the  same  in  kind  (though  different  in  degree) 
among  all  living  creatures  :  this  instinct,  therefore,  because  it 
annihilates  all  distinctions,  and  degrades  the  greatest  of  men  to 
the  level  of  "the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  on,"  exhibits  human 
nature  in  its  most  ab'ject  and  humiliating  attitude. 

3.  Such  an  attitude  would  little  suit  the  purposes  of  the  poet. 


588  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

■ 

What,  then,  must  he  do  ?  He  must  throw  the  interest  on  the 
murderer.  Our  sympathy  must  be  with  him  (of  course  I  mean 
a  sympathy  of  comprehension,  a  sympathy  by  which  we  enter 
into  his  feelings  and  are  made  to  understand  them — not  a  sym- 
pathy of  pity  or  approbation).  In  the  murdered  person  all 
strife  of  thought,  all  flux  and  reflux  of  passion  and  of  purpose, 
are  crushed  by  one  overwhelming  panic  :  the  fear  of  instant 
death  smites  him  "  with  its  petrific  mace."  But  in  the  murderer 
— such  a  murderer  as  a  poet  will  condescend  to — there  must  be 
raging  some  great  storm  of  passion — jealousy,  ambition,  venge- 
ance, hatred — which  will  create  a  hell  within  him  ;  and  into  this . 
hell  we  are  to  look. 

4.  In  Macbeth,  for  the  sake  of  gratifying  his  own  enormous 
and  teeming  faculty  of  creation,  Shakspeare  has  introduced  two 
murderers  ;  and,  as  usual  in  his  hands,  they  are  remarkably  dis- 
criminated :  but,  though  in  Macbeth  the  strife  of  mind  is  greater 
than  in  his  wife — the  tiger  spirit  not  so  awake,  and  his  feelings 
caught  chiefly  by  contagion  from  her, — yet,  as  both  were  finally 
involved  in  the  guilt  of  murder,  the  murderous  mind  of  necessity 
is  finally  to  be  presumed  in  both.  This  was  to  be  expressed  ; 
and  on  its  own  account,  as  well  as  to  make  it  a  more  proportion- 
able antagonist  to  the  unoffending  nature  of  their  victim,  "  the 
gracious  Duncan,"  and  adequately  to  expound  "  the  deep  damna- 
tion of  his  taking  off,"  this  was  to  be  expressed  with  peculiar 
energy.  We  were  to  be  made  to  feel  that  the  human  nature, 
i.  e.}  the  divine  nature  of  love  and  mercy,  spread  through  the 
hearts  of  all  creatures,  and  seldom  utterly  withdrawn  from  man, 
was  gone,  vanished,  extinct ;  and  that  the  fiendish  nature  had 
taken  its  place.  And,  as  this  effect  is  marvelously  accomplished 
in  the  dialogues  and  soliloquies  themselves,  so  it  is  finally  con- 
summated by  the  expedient  under  consideration  ;  and  it  is  to 
this  that  I  now  solicit  the  reader's  attention. 

5.  If  the  reader  has  ever  witnessed  a  wife,  daughter,  or  sister 
in  a  fainting  fit,  he  may  chance  to  have  observed  that  the  most 
affecting  moment  in  such  a  spectacle  is  that  in  which  a  sigh  and 
a  stirring  announce  the  recommencement  of  suspended  life.  Or, 
if  the  reader  has  ever  been  present  in  a  vast  metropolis  on  tho 
day  when  some  great  national  idol  was  carried  in  funeral  pomp 
to  his  grave,  and  chancing  to  walk  near  the  course  through 
which  it  passed,  has  felt  powerfully,  in  the  silence  and  desertion 


THE    KNOCKING    AT    THE    GATE,   IN    MACBETH.       580 

of  the  streets,  and  in  the  stagnation  of  ordinary  business,  the 
deep  interest  which  at  that  moment  was  possessing  the  heart  of 
man, — if  all  at  once  he  should  hear  the  deathlike  stillness  bro- 
ken up  by  the  sound  of  wheels  rattling  away  from  the  scene, 
and  making  known  that  the  transitory  vision  was  dissolved,  he 
will  be  aware  that  at  no  moment  was  his  sense  of  the  complete 
suspension  and  pause  in  ordinary  human  concerns  so  full  and 
affecting,  as  at  that  moment  when  the  suspension  ceases  and  the 
goings-on  of  human  life  are  suddenly  resume  i. 

6.  All  action  in  any  direction  is  best  expounded,  measured, 
and  made  apprehensible  by  reaction.  Now  apply  this  to  the 
case  in  Macbeth.  Here,  as  I  have  said,  the  retiring  of  the 
human  heart  and  the  entrance  of  the  fiendish  heart  was  to  be 
expressed  and  made  sensible.  Another  world  has  stepped  in, 
and  the  murderers  are  taken  out  of  the  region  of  human  things, 
human  purposes,  human  desires.  They  are  transfigured  :  Lady 
Macbeth  is  "unsexed  ;"  Macbeth  has  forgot  that  he  was  born 
of  woman  :  both  are  conformed  to  the  image  of  devils  ;  and 
the  world  of  devils  is  suddenly  revealed.  But  how  shall  this  be 
conveyed  and  made  palpable  ? 

7.  In  order  that  a  new  world  may  step  in,  this  world  must  for 
a  time  disappear.  The  murderers  and  the  murder  must  be  in- 
sulated— cut  off  by  an  immeasurable  gulf  froin  the  ordinary  tide 
and  succession  of  human  affairs — locked  up  and  sequestered  in 
some  deep  recess';  we  must  be  made  sensible  that  the  world  of 
ordinary  life  is  suddenly  arrested — laid  asleep — tranced — racked 
into  a  dread  armistice  :  time  must  be  annihilated  ;  relation  to 
things  without  abolished  ;  and  all  must  pass  self-withdrawn  into 
a  deep  syncope '  and  suspension  of  earthly  passion.  Hence  it 
is,  that  when  the  deed  is  done,  when  the  work  of  darkness  is 
perfect,  then  the  world  of  darkness  passes  away  like  a  pageantry 
in  the  clouds  :  the  knocking  at  the  gate  is  heard,  and  it  makes 
known  audibly  that  the  reaction  has  commenced  :  the  human 
has  made  its  reflux  upon  the  fiendish ;  the  pulses  of  life  are 
beginning  to  beat  again,  and  the  reestablishment  of  the  goings- 
on  of  the  world  in  which  we  live,  first  makes  us  profoundly 
sensible  of  the  awful  parenthesis  that  had  suspended  them. 

'Syncope,   (sing' ko  pe),   a   faint-  accompanied  with   a  suspension  of 

ing  or  swooning;    a  diminution,  de-  the  action  of  the  brain,  and  a  tem- 

crcase,  or  interruption  of  the  motion  porary  loss  of  sensation,    volition, 

of   the    heart,    and  of    respiration,  and  other  faculti  :*. 


590  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

8.  O  mighty  poet !  Thy  works  are  not  as  thoce  of  other 
men,  simply  and  merely  great  works  of  art,  but  are  also  like  the 
phenomena  of  nature — like  the  sun  and  the  sea,  the  stars  and 
the  flowers,  like  frost  and  snow,  rain  and  dew,  hail-storm  and 
thunder, — which  are  to  be  studied  with  entire  submission  of  our 
own  faculties,  and  in  the  perfect  faith  that  in  them  there  can  be 
no  too  much  or  too  little,  nothing  useless  or  inert  ;  but  that, 
the  further  we  press  in  our  discoveries,  the  more  we  shall  see 
proofs  of  design  and  self-supporting  arrangement  where  the 
careless  eye  had  seen  nothing  but  accident.  Db  Quincey. 


SECTION    XXXIX. 

I. 

192.     MESSIAH. 

YE  nymphs  of  Solyrna ! '  begin  the  song — 
To  heavenlv  themes  sublimer  strains  belong. 
The  mossy  fountains  and  the  sylvan  shades, 
The  dreams  of  Pindus 2  and  the  Aoni'an  maids,3 
Delight  no  more — O  thou  my  voice  inspire 
Who  touched  Isaiah's 4  hallowed  lips  with  fire ! 

2.  Rapt  into  future  times  the  bard  began  : 

A  virgin  shall  conceive — a  virgin  bear  a  son! 
From  Jesse's  root  behold  a  branch  arise 
Whose  sacred  flower  with  fragrance  fills  the  skies ! 
Th'  ethereal  spirit  o'er  its  leaves  shall  move, 
And  on  its  top  descends  the  mystic  dove. 

3.  Ye  heavens !  from  high  the  dewy  nectar  pour, 
And  in  soft  silence  shed  the  kindly  shower ! 
The  sick  and  weak  the  healing  plant  shall  aid — 
From  storm  a  shelter,  and  from  heat  a  shade. 

All  crimes  shall  cease,  and  ancient  frauds  shall  fail ; 
Returning  Justice  lift  aloft  her  scale, 


1  S51'  y  ma,  another  name  for  Je-  called,  because  they  frequented  ML 

rusalem.  Helicon  and  the  fountain  Aganippe. 

3  Pin'  dus,  a  lofty  range  of  moun-  which  were  in   Aonia,    one  of  the 

tains  in  Northern  Greece.  ancient  names  of  Bceotw. 

•  Aonian   maids,   tlie    Muses,   so  4  Isaiah,  (1  za'  ya). 


THE    MESSIAH.  591 

Peace  o'er  the  world  her  olive  wand  extend, 
And  white-robed  Innocence  from  heaven  descend. 

4.  Swift  fly  the  years,  and  rise  the  expected  morn ! 
O  spring  to  light!  auspicious  babe,  be  born! 
See,  nature  hastes  her  earliest  wreaths  to  bring, 
"With  all  the  incense  of  the  breathing  spring ! 
See  loftv  Lebanon  his  head  advance  : 
See  nodding  forests  on  the  mountains  dance  ; 
See  spicy  clouds  from  lowly  Sharon  rise, 
And  Carmcl's  flowery  top  perfumes  the  skies  I 

6.  Hark !  a  glad  voice  the  lonely  desert  cheers  : 
Prepare  the  way !  a  God,  a  God  appears ! 
A  God,  a  God !  the  vocal  hills  reply — 
The  rocks  proclaim  the  approaching  Deity. 
Lo,  earth  receives  Him  from  the  bending  skies! 
Sink  down,  ye  mountains  ;  and  }*e  valleys,  rise  I 
"With  heads  declined,  ye  cedars,  homage  pay ! 
Be  smooth,  ye  rocks  ;  ye  rapid  floods,  give  way ! 

6.  The  Saviour  comes!  by  ancient  bards  foretold — 
Hear  Him,  ye  deaf  ;  and  all  ye  blind,  behold ! 
He  from  thick  films  shall  purge  the  visual  ray, 
And  on  the  sightless  eyeball  pour  the  day  ; 

'T  is  He  th'  obstructed  paths  of  sound  shall  clear, 

And  bid  new  music  charm  th'  unfolding  ear  ; 

The  dumb  shall  sing  ;  the  lame  his  crutch  forego, 

And  leap  exulting  like  the  bounding  roe. 

No  sigh,  no  murmur,  the  wide  world  shall  hear — 

From  every  face  He  wipes  off  every  tear. 

In  adxaman'tmc  chains  shall  Death  be  bound. 

And  hell's  grim  tyrant  feel  th'  eternal  wound. 

7.  As  the  good  shepherd  tends  his  fleecy  care, 
Seeks  freshest  pasture,  and  the  purest  air, 
Explores  the  lost,  the  wandering  sheep  directs, 
By  day  o'ersees  them,  and  by  night  protects  ; 
The  tender  lambs  He  raises  in  his  arms — 
Feeds  from  His  hand,  and  in  His  bosom  warms : 
Thus  shall  mankind  His  guardian  care  engage — 
The  promised  father  of  the  future  age. 


592  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

8.  No  more  shall  nation  against  nation  rise, 
Nor  ardent  warriors  meet  with  hateful  eyes  ; 
Nor  fields  with  gleaming  steel  be  covered  o'er, 
The  brazen  trumpets  kindle  rage  no  more  ; 
But  useless  lances  into  scythes  shall  bend, 
And  the  broad  falchion  in  a  plough-share  end. 
Then  palaces  shall  rise  ;  the  joyful  son 

Shall  finish  what  his  short-lived  sire  begun  ; 
Their  vines  a  shadow  to  their  race  shall  yield, 
And  the  same  hand  that  sowed  shall  reap  the  field. 

9.  The  swain  in  barren  deserts,  with  surprise, 
Sees  lilies  spring,  and  sudden  verdure  rise  ; 
And  starts,  amidst  the  thirsty  wilds,  to  hear 
New  falls  of  water  murmuring  in  his  ear. 
On  rifted  rocks,  the  dragon's  late  abodes, 

The  green  reed  trembles,  and  the  bulrush  nods  ; 
Waste  sandy  valleys,  once  perplexed  with  thorn, 
The  spiry  fir  and  shapely  box  adorn  : 
To  leafless  shrubs  the  flowery  palms  succeed, 
And  odorous  myrtle  to  the  noisome  weed. 

10.  The  lambs  with  wolves  shall  graze  the  verdant  mead, 
And  boys  in  flowery  bands  the  tiger  lead  : 

The  steer  and  lion  at  one  crib  shall  meet, 
And  harmless  serpents  lick  the  pilgrim's  feet. 
The  smiling  infant  in  his  hand  shall  take 
The  crested  basilisk  and  speckled  snake — 
Pleased,  the  green  luster  of  the  scales  survey, 
And  with  their  forked  tongues  shall  innocently  play. 

11.  Rise,  crowned  with  light,  imperial  Salem,  rise ! 
Exalt  thy  towery  head,  and  lift  thy  eyes  ! 

See  a  long  race  thy  spacious  courts  adorn  ; 

See  future  sons  and  daughters,  yet  unborn, 

In  crowding  ranks  on  every  side  arise, 

Demanding  life,  impatient  for  the  skies ! 

See  barbarous  nations  at  thy  gates  attend, 

Walk  in  thy  light,  and  in  thy  temple  bend  ; 

See  thy  bright  altars  thronged  with  prostrate  kings, 

And  heaped  with  products  of  Sabean  '  springs ! 


1  Sa  be'  an,  pertaining  to  Saba,  in  Arabia,  celebrated  for  producing  ar* 

cicatic  planta 


OMNIPRESENCE    AND    OMNISCIENCE    OF    GOD.         593 

For  Thee  Mimic's '  spicy  forests  blow, 
And  seeds  of  gold  in  Ophir's2  mountains  glow. 
See  heaven  its  sparkling  portals  wide  display, 
And  break  upon  thee  in  a  flood  of  day ! 

12.   No  more  the  rising  sun  shall  gild  the  morn, 
Nor  evening  Cynthia1  till  her  silver  horn  ; 
But  lost,  dissolved  in  thy  superior  rays, 
One  tide  of  glory,  one  unclouded  blaze, 
O'erflow  thy  courts  ;  the  Light  Himself  shall  shine 
Ilevealed,  and  God's  eternal  day  be  thine! 
The  seas  shall  waste,  the  skies  in  smoke  decay, 
Rocks  fall  to  dust,  and  mountains  melt  away  ; 
But  fixed  His  word,  His  saving  power  remains ; 
Thy  realm  for  ever  lasts,  thy  own  Messiah  reigns !      Pope. 

n. 

193.     OMNIPRESENCE    AND    OMNISCIENCE    OF    GOD. 

I  WAS  yesterday  about  sunset  walking  in  the  open  fields, 
until  the  night  insensibly  fell  upon  me.  I  at  first  amused 
myself  with  all  the  richness  and  variety  of  colors  which  appear- 
ed in  the  western  parts  of  heaven  :  in  proportion  as  they  faded 
away  and  went  out,  several  stars  and  planets  appeared,  one 
after  another,  until  the  whole  firmament  was  in  a  glow.  The 
blueness  of  the  ether  was  exceedingly  heightened  and  enlivened 
by  the  season  of  the  year,  and  by  the  rays  of  all  those  lumina- 
ries that  passed  through  it.  The  galaxy  4  appeared  in  its  most 
beautiful  white.  To  complete  the  scene,  the  full  moon  rose  at 
length  in  that  clouded  majesty  which  Milton  takes  notice  of, 
and  opened  to  the  eye  a  new  picture  of  nature,  which  was  more 
finely  shaded  and  disposed  among  softer  lights  than  that  which 
the  sun  had  before  discovered  to  us. 


1 1  du'  me,  or   Id  a'  mae  a,  an  an-  ed  from  the   earliest   times  for  its 

cient  country  of  Western  Asia,  com-  gold.     Some   suppose  it  to  be  the 

prising  the  mountainous  tract  on  the  same   as   the   modern    Sofala  ;   and 

east  side  of  the  great  valleys  of  El-  others  conjecture  it  was  situated  in 

Ghor  and  El-Arabah,  and  west  and  the  East  Indies, 

southwest  of  the  Dead  Sea,  with  a  3  Cyn'  thi  a,   the  moon,  a   name 

portion  of  Arabia.  given  to  Diana,  derived  fruin  Mount 

a  O'  phir,  an  ancient  country  men-  Cynthus,  her  birthplace, 

tionedin  the  Scriptures,  and  renown-  *  Gal'  ax  y,  the  Milky  Way. 


594  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

2.  As  I  was  surveying  the  moon  walking  in  her  brightness, 
and  taking  her  progress  among  the  constellations,  a  thought 
rose  in  me  which  I  believe  very  often  perplexes  and  disturbs 
men  of  serious  and  contemplative  natures.  David  himself  fell 
into  it  in  that  reflection,  "  When  I  consider  thy  heavens,  the 
work  of  thy  fingers,  the  moon  and  the  stars  which  thou  hast 
ordained  :  what  is  man,  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him,  and  the 
son  of  man,  that  thou  regardest  him  !"  In  the  same  manner 
when  I  considered  that  infinite  host  of  stars,  or,  to  speak  more 
philosophically,  of  suns  which  were  then  shining  upon  me,  with 
those  innumerable  sets  of  planets  or  worlds  which  were  moving 
round  their  respective  suns  ;  when  I  still  enlarged  the  ide'a, 
and  supposed  another  heaven  of  suns  and  worlds  rising  still 
above  this  which  we  discovered,  and  these  still  enlightened  by 
a  superior  firmament  of  luminaries,  which  are  planted  at  so 
great  a  distance  that  they  may  appear  to  the  inhabitants  of  the 
former  as  the  stars  do  to  us  ;  in  short,  while  I  pursue  this 
thought,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  that  little  insignificant  figure 
which  I  myself  bore  amidst  the  immensity  of  God's  works. 

3.  If  we  consider  God  in  his  omnipresence,  his  being  passes 
through,  actuates,  and  supports  the  whole  frame  of  nature. 
His  creation,  and  every  part  of  it,  is  full  of  him.  There  is 
nothing  he  has  made  that  is  either  so  distant,  so  little,  or  so 
inconsiderable,  which  he  does  not, essentially  inhabit.  His  sub- 
stance is  within  the  substance  of  every  being,  whether  material 
or  immaterial,  and  as  intimately  present  to  it  as  that  being  is 
to  itself.  It  would  be  an  imperfection  in  him  were  he  able  to 
remove  out  of  one  place  into  another,  or  to  withdraw  himself 
from  any  thing  he  has  created,  or  from  any  part  of  that  space 
which  is  diffused  and  spread  abroad  to  infinity.  In  short,  to 
speak  of  him  in  the  language  of  the  old  philosopher,  he  is  a  Being 
whose  center  is  everywhere,  and  his  circumference  nowhere. 

4.  In  the  second  place,  he  is  omniscient '  as  well  as  omnipres- 
ent.3 His  omniscience,  indeed,  necessarily  and  naturally  flows 
from  his  omnipresence  ;  he  can  not  but  be  conscious  of  every 
motion  that  arises  in  the  whole  material  world,  which  he  thus 
essentially  pervades,  and  of  every  thought  that  is  stirring  in 
the  intellectual  world,  to  every  part  of  which  he  is  thus  inti- 

1  Omniscience,  (om  nfsh' ent),  a  Om^ni  preV  ent,  present  in  nil 
having  all  knowledge  ;  all-seeing.         places  at  the  same  time. 


OMNIPRESENCE    AND    OMNISCIENCE    OF    GOD.  595 

mately  united.  Several  moralists  have  considered  the  creation 
as  the  temple  of  God,  which  he  has  built  with  his  own  hands, 
and  which  is  tilled  with  his  presence.  Others  have  considered 
infinite  space  as  the  receptacle,  or  rather  the  habitation  of  tho 
Almighty  ;  but  the  noblest  and  most  exalted  way  of  considering 
this  infinite  space  is  that  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton,  who  calls  it  tho 
sensorium  i  of  the  Godhead.  Brutes  and  men  have  their  sen- 
soriola,  or  little  sensoriums,  by  which  they  apprehend  the  pres- 
ence and  perceive  the  actions  of  a  few  objects  that  lie  con- 
tiguous to  them.  Their  knowledge  and  observation  turn  within 
a  very  narrow  circle.  But  as  God  Almighty  can  not  but  per- 
ceive and  know  eveiwthing  in  which  he  resides,  infinite  spaco 
gives  room  to  infinite  knowledge,  and  is,  as  it  were,  an  organ 
to  omniscience. 

5.  AVere  the  soul  separate  from  the  body,  and  with  one  glanco 
of  thought  should  start  beyond  the  bounds  of  the  creation  ; 
should  it  for  millions  of  years  continue  its  progress  through 
infinite  space  with  the  same  activity,  it  would  still  find  itself 
within  the  embrace  of  its  Creator,  and  encompassed  round  with 
the  immensity  of  the  Godhead.  "Whilst  we  are  in  the  body,  he 
is  not  less  present  with  us  because  he  is  concealed  from  us.  "  0 
that  I  knew  where  I  mi^ht  find  him  !"  savs  Job.  "Behold  I  £0 
forward,  but  he  is  not  there  ;  and  backward,  but  I  can  not  per- 
ceive him  ;  on  the  left  hand,  where  he  does  work,  but  I  can  not 
behold  him  ;  he  hideth  himself  on  the  right  hand  that  I  can  not 
see  him."  In  short,  reason  as  well  as  revelation  assures  us  that 
he  can  not  be  absent  from  us,  notwithstanding  he  is  undiscov- 
ered by  us. 

6.  In  this  consideration  of  God  Almighty's  omnipresence  and 
omniscience,  every  uncomfortable  thought  vanishes.  He  can 
not  but  regard  every  thing  that  has  being,  especially  such  of 
his  creatures  who  fear  they  arc  not  regarded  by  him.  He  is 
privy  to  all  their  thoughts,  and  to  that  anxiety  of  heart  in  par- 
ticular, which  is  apt  to  trouble  them  on  this  occasion  ;  for,  as 
it  is  impossible  he  should  overlook  any  of  his  creatures,  so  we 
may  be  confident  that  he  regards  with  an  eye  of  mercy  those 
who  endeavor  to  recommend  themselves  to  his  notice,  and  in 
an  unfeisTied  humility  of  heart  think  themselves  unworthy  that 
he  should  be  mindful  of  them.  Addison. 

1  Sen  so'  ri  um,  tho  scat  of  souse  or  perception. 


596  NATIONAL    FIFTH    HEADER. 

in. 

104.     GOD. 

OTHOU  eternal  One !  whose  presence  bright 
All  space  doth  occupy,  all  motion  guide — 
Unchanged  through  time's  all  devastating  flight! 
Thou  only  God — there  is  no  God  beside ! 
Being  above  all  beings !     Mighty  One, 
Whom  none  can  comprehend  and  none  explore 
"Who  fill'st  existence  with  Thyself  alone — 
Embracing  all,  supporting,  ruling  o'er, — 
Being  whom  we  call  God,  and  know  no  more ! 

2.  In  its  sublime  research,  philosophy 

May  measure  out  the  ocean-deep — may  count 
The  sands  or  the  sun's  rays — but,  God !  for  Thee 
There  is  no  weight  nor  measure  ;  none  can  mount 
Up  to  Thy  mysteries  ;  Reason's  brightest  spark, 
Though  kindled  by  Thy  light,  in  vain  would  try 
To  trace  Thy  counsels,  infinite  and  dark  ; 
And  thought  is  lost  ere  thought  can  soar  so  high, 
Even  like  past  moments  in  eternity. 

3.  Thou  from  primeval  nothingness  didst  call 
Eirst  chaos,  then  existence — Lord !  in  Thee 
Eternity  had  its  foundation  :  all 

Sprung  forth  from  Thee — of  light,  joy,  harmony, 

Sole  Origin — all  life,  all  beauty  Thine  ; 

Thy  word  created  all,  and  doth  create  ; 

Thy  splendor  fills  all  space  with  rays  divine  ; 

Thou  art,  and  wert,  and  shalt  be !     Glorious !     Great ! 

Light-giving,  life-sustaining  Potentate ! 

4.  Thy  chains  the  unmeasured  universe  surround — 
Upheld  by  Thee,  by  Thee  inspired  with  breath ! 
Thou  the  beginning  with  the  end  hast  bound, 
And  beautifully  mingled  life  and  death ! 

As  sparks  mount  upward  from  the  fiery  blaze, 

So  suns  arc  born,  so  worlds  spring  forth  from  Thee  ; 

And  as  the  spangles  in  the  sunny  rays 

Shine  round  the  silver  snow,  the  pageantry 

Of  heaven's  bright  army  glitters  in  Thy  praise. 


god.  597 

5.  A  million  torches,  lighted  by  Thy  hand, 
Wander  unwearied  through  the  blue  abyss — 
They  own  Thy  power,  accomplish  Thy  command, 
All  gay  with  lite,  all  eloquent  with  bliss. 

"What  shall  we  call  them  ?     Piles  of  crystal  light — < 
A  glorious  company  of  golden  streams — 
Lamps  of  celestial  ether  burning  bright — 
Suns  lighting  systems  with  their  joyous  beams? 
But  Thou  to  these  art  as  the  noon  to  night. 

6.  Yes !  as  a  drop  of  water  in  the  sea, 
All  this  magnificence  in  Thee  is  lost  : — 

What  are  ten  thousand  worlds  compared  to  Thee  ? 
And  what  am  I  then  ? — Heaven's  unnumbered  host, 
Though  multiplied  by  myriads,  and  arrayed 
In  all  the  glory  of  sublimest  thought, 
Is  but  an  atom  in  the  balance,  weighed 
Against  Thy  greatness — is  a  cipher  brought 
Against  infinity !     What  am  I  then  ?     Naught ! 

7.  Naught !  But  the  effluence  of  Thy  light  divine, 
Pervading  worlds,  hath  reached  my  bosom  too  ; 
Yes !  in  my  spirit  doth  Thy  spirit  shine 

As  shines  the  sun-beam  in  a  drop  of  dew. 

Naught !  but  I  live,  and  on  hope's  pinions  fly 

Eager  toward  Thy  presence  ;  for  in  Thee 

I  live,  and  breathe,  and  dwell  ;  aspiring  high, 

Even  to  the  throne  of  Thy  divinity. 

I  am,  O  God !  and  surely  Thou  must  be ! 

8.  Thou  art ! — directing,  guiding  all — Thou  art ! 
Direct  my  understanding  then  to  Thee  ; 
Control  my  spirit,  guide  my  wandering  heart ; 
Though  but  an  atom  midst  immensity, 

Still  I  am  something,  fashioned  bv  Thv  hand ! 
I  hold  a  middle  rank  'twixt  heaven  and  earth — 
On  the  last  verge  of  mortal  being  stand, 
Close  to  the  realms  where  angels  have  their  birth, 
Just  on  the  boundaries  of  the  spirit-land! 

9.  The  chain  of  being  is  complete  in  me — 
In  me  is  matter's  last  gradation  lost, 
And  the  next  step  is  f pirit — Deity  i 


598  NATIONAL    FIFTH    READER. 

I  can  command  the  lightning,  and  am  dust ! 
A  monarch  and  a  slave — a  worm,  a  god ! 
"Whence  came  I  here,  and  how  ?  so  marvelously 
Constructed  and  conceived?  unknown!  this  clod 
Lives  surely  through  some  higher  energy  ; 
For  from  itself  alone  it  could  not  be ! 

10.  Creator,  yes !     Thy  wisdom  and  Thy  word 
Created  me  !     Thou  source  of  life  and  good ! 
Thou  spirit  of  my  spirit,  and  my  Lord ! 
Thy  light,  Thy  love,  in  their  bright  plenitude 
Tilled  me  with  an  immortal  soul,  to  spring 
Over  the  abyss  of  death  ;  and  bade  it  wear 
The  garments  of  eternal  day,  and  wing 

Its  heavenly  flight  beyond  this  little  sphere, 
Even  to  its  source — to  Thee — its  Author  there. 

11.  O  thoughts  ineffable !  O  visions  blest ! 
Though  worthless  our  conceptions  all  of  Thee, 
Yet  shall  Thy  shadowed  image  fill  our  breast, 
And  waft  its  homage  to  Thy  Deity. 

God !  thus  alone  my  lowly  thoughts  can  soar, 
Thus  seek  thy  presence — Being  wise  and  good ! 
Midst  Thy  vast  works  admire,  obey,  adore  ; 
And  when  the  tongue  is  eloquent  no  more 
The  soul  shall  speak  in  tears  of  gratitude. 

Derzhaven. 
Gabriel  Romanovitcii  Derziiavin,  a  Russian  lyric  poet,  was  born  in  Kasan, 
July  3d,  1743.  lie  gained  distinction  in  the  military  and  civil  service,  receiving 
the  appointment  of  secretary  of  state  in  1791,  and  of  minister  of  justice  in  1S03. 
Many  of  his  poems  abound  with  beautiful  moral  sentiments  and  expressions, 
especially  the  above  ode  to  "God,"  which  was  translated  into  several  European 
languages,  and  into  Chinese  and  Japanese.  It  is  said  to  have  been  hung  tip  in 
the  palace  of  the  emperor  of  China,  printed  in  gold  letters  on  white  satin  :  it 
was  in  like  manner  placed  in  the  temple  of  Jeddo.  His  complete  works,  in  five 
volumes,  appeared  at  St.  Petersburg  in  1810.  He  died  July  Gth,  1S16.  The  above 
olmirablc  translation  was  made  by  Sir  John  Bowring,  British  goverror  of 


Hong  Kong. 


INDEX 

TO    WORDS    DEFINED,    WORDS    PRONOUNCED,    ETC. 


The  figures  refer  to  the  pages  where  the  words  are  to  be  found. 


A,  77. 

Abraham,  87. 
Achaians,  396. 
Acme,  114. 
Acropolis,  299. 
JSolian,  469. 
Adoratiou,  82. 
Again,  78,  94. 
Aid-de-eiunp,  91. 
Aidenn,  562. 
Air,  77.    Ajax,  242. 
Alexander,  231. 
Alexandrine,  242. 
Alibi,  2z6. 
Alien,  202. 
Analogous,  236. 
Antinous,  226. 
Antiquarian,  115. 
Aonian  maids,  590. 
Apollo  Belvld.,  226. 
Arable,  200. 
Arbuthnot,  J.,  237. 
Archives,  349. 
Architrave,  88. 
Anstarchus,  223. 
Aromatic,  16S. 
Arthur,  King,  426. 
Ascham,  11.,  362. 
Astral,  326. 
Athlete,  281. 
Au  fait,  225. 
Aunt,  92. 
Aurora,  891. 
Avalanche,  95. 
Awakes,  78. 
Avaunt,  154. 
Ay,  117. 
Bacchus,  528. 
Bacon,  Francis,  211. 
Bagdad.  180. 
Bailey,  P.  J.  476. 
Bannockburn,  2S7. 
Barbacan,  37a. 
Baton,  279. 
Bat  lis,  463. 
Bcattie,  James, 472. 
Belles-lettres,  115. 
Bellows,  530. 
Beneath,  116. 
Beneficent,  200. 
Beneficence,  82. 
Benign,  356. 
Bergs,  77. 
Beteem,  490. 
Bigamy,  116. 
Birds, '77. 
Bolingbroke,  514. 


Bombs,  523. 

Boreal,  172. 

Bosom,  78,  364. 

Bosoms,  153. 

Boswell,  J.,  210. 

Boswellism,  579. 

Bouquet,  802. 

Bowles,  W.  L.,470. 

Bozzaris,  M.,  398. 

Brute,  82. 

Bunker  Hill,  176. 

Burke,  Ed.,  237. 

Iiurr,  Aaron,  3">9. 

Cjssar,  C.  J.,  312. 

I  aliph,  180. 

Calypso,  860. 

Cant,  851. 

('ap-a-pie,  308. 

( 'arr,  285. 

i  Carpio,  B.  del.,  309. 
I  Camilla,  242. 

Castellated,  463. 

( iassock,  119. 

Catiline,  L.S.,  387. 
ICato,  M.  P.,  533. 

Cecilia,  531. 

<  Vntaur,  556. 

Cerement,  140. 

Chalons-sur-Marne, 
267. 

Charon,  382. 

Chateaubriand,  536. 

Charybdis,  422. 
!  Chatam,  238. 
J  Chaucer,  G.  88. 
!  Cicero,  M.  T.,  205. 
!  Claymore,  154. 

Coleridge,  II.,  475. 
:  Coliseum,  258. 
|  Columbus,  C,  95. 
|  Command,  B4. 
I  Concatenation,  380. 
\  Concomitant,  843. 

I  Miistabulary,  114. 

I  lonstancy,  586. 

I  loDStantiue  I.,  255. 
;  Constellation,  Bl. 

< ionsumuiate,  86. 

Contemporary,  S6. 

Contumely,  141. 

Conversazione,  225. 

Correi,  143. 

Coronach,  143. 

Courteous,  494. 

Cromwell,  O.,  361. 

Cuisse,  482. 

Culloden,  153. 


Culverin,  307. 

Cumber,  143. 

Curacy,  11!'. 

Curran,  J.  P.,  137. 

I  J  nt  hia,  598. 

Cytheris,  3»i7. 

Czar,  92. 

Dacian,  257. 

Dante,  292. 

Dare,  86. 

Darius  111.,  528. 

I  >ai  win  E..  478. 

Daw,  Sir  II.,  537. 

Death,  584. 

Deciduous,  r>44. 

Delfthaven,  284. 

Demosthenes,  206, 

Denham,  J.,  242. 

Denizen,  202. 

Derelict,  344. 

Diana,  226,  367. 

Diapason,  99. 

Dilatory,  351. 

Dodsley,  B.,  244. 
]  Durable,  380. 

Eabth.  77. 

Ecstatic,  100. 
,  Edwards,  J.,  464. 

Effuse,  83. 
|  EI  Dorado,  285. 

Elliot,  E.,  238. 

Emmett,  R.,  136. 

Epaulettes,  280. 
,  Epictetus,  364. 

Epicurean,  549. 
I  Equipage,  266. 

Kiel) us,  520. 
'■  Et  cetera,  279. 

En  regie,  225. 

Kuril 'ides. 

Euthanasia,  132. 

Excursion,  266. 

Exemplary,  138. 

Exotic,  168. 

Extraordinary,  165. 

Falchion,  I 

Feature.  165. 

Foray,  143. 

Franklin,  B.,  213. 

Front-de-Bceuf,  375 

Fruits.  S3. 

Fuller's  bird,  147. 
;  Gaiuisu.  13S. 

Galaxy,  593. 

Gape,  493. 

Ger-falcon,  434. 

Ghoul,  553. 


Gibbon,  E.,  95. 

Gifford,  Win,  238. 
;  Gil  Bias,  222. 
i  Gladiator,  254. 
,  Gone,  77. 
I  Gorgon,  356. 

Gospel,  200. 

Goths,  257. 
'Graphic,  115. 

Greaves,  432. 

Green  Harbor.  340. 

( Irey,  Jane.  862. 

Guerdon,  422. 

Gymnosop  lusts,  118 

Halt,  93. 

Hall,  Robert,  213. 

llallain.  Henry,  239 

Halleluiah,  99. 

Hamilton,  A.,  292. 

Hamlet,  498,  501. 

Hampden,  J.,  292. 

Harpy,  14-<. 

Hazii'lt,  Win,  239. 

Hearth,  2 .".4. 

Hecate,  266. 

Helen,  530. 

Helicon,  399. 

Hercules,  226. 

Herodotus,  343. 

Hesperus,  577. 

Ilierocles,  378. 

Hieroglyphic,  93. 
;  Homer,  B7. 

Horace,  231. 

Hortus  siccus,  226. 
;  Howard,  Jolm,  301. 

Hume,  David,  237. 

Hurdle,  123. 
I  Ilurdis,  Jas.,  473. 
I  Hurrahs,  93. 

Hurtle,  555. 

Hyperbolical,  379. 

Hyperion,  4 

Hypothesis,  200. 

Idiomatic,  576. 

Idume.  598. 
!  Immcthodie,  200. 

Imperatoriai,  812. 

Importunate,  14  '. 

Imprecations,  268. 

Improvise,  44'.'. 

Incarnadine,  5^6. 

Indian.  96. 

Ineffable,  S5. 

Ineradicable,  200. 
I  Inexorable,  92. 

In  procinctu,  312. 


600 


INDEX    TO    WORDS. 


Intrepid,  136. 
Introspection,  341. 
Isaiah,  590. 

J.VCOBITiSil,   371. 

Jessica,  519. 
Jove,  367. 
Jubilee,  144. 
Jura,  467. 
Keats,  John,  238. 
Kepler,  John,  201. 
Knowles,  J.  S.,  392. 
Kopeck,  91. 
Kosciusko,  T.,  156. 
Laocoon,  453. 
Lateral,  236. 
Laus  Deo,  279. 
Legerdemain,  359. 
Leman,  46(5. 
Lemnian,  367. 
Leon i das,  95. 
Lethe,  496. 
Lets,  495. 
Leuk,  463. 
Libyan  Jove.  242. 
Lichen,  73. 
Livy,  343. 
Locke,  John,  210. 
Logan,  306. 
Lucretius,  231. 
Luther.  M.,  237. 
Lydian,  529. 
Macbeth,  583. 
Machination,  380. 
Magician,  205. 
Maginu,  Win.  239. 
Mahomet,  397. 
Mammonish,  199. 
Marathon,  287. 
Marius,  312. 
Mars,  502. 
Marshfield,  339. 
Massinger,  P.,  580. 
Masquerade,  138. 
Mausoleum,  299. 
Mayflower,  285. 
Melliteous,  231. 
Melnotte,  C,  333. 
Mercury,  502. 
Merhn/427. 
Minerva,  300. 
Mirabeau,  238. 
Misanthrope,  372. 
Monody,  5.".:;. 
Monsieur,  92. 
Moscow,  146. 
Muezzin,  476. 
Mystic,  84,  144. 
Nepenthe.  561. 
Newton,  Sir  i.,  201. 
None,  98.  Nooks,  78. 
North  Aa,  157. 
Nothing,  78. 
Occult,  577. 
Olfactory,   116. 
Oiymp'm,  52o. 


i  Olympus,  298. 

Omnipresent,  594. 

Omniscience,  594. 

Ophir,  593. 

Ophiuchus,  581. 

Orchestra,  79. 

Orpheus,  348. 

Ostend,  519. 

P.EAN,  553. 

Pamim,  307. 

Palisade,  375. 

Palms,  78. 

Pampered,  85. 

Pantheon,  121. 

Paradoxical,  575. 

Parnassus,  241. 

Parodist,  576. 

Parrhasius,  366. 

Passinsr,  802. 

Past,  77. 

Paten,  519. 

1'ater-patriae,  275. 

Path,  85. 

Pauline,  333. 

Perennial,  199. 

Pericles,  299. 

Petit  larceny,  115. 

Phoebus,  238. 

Phidias,  300. 

Philomela,  84. 

Piccini,  224. 

Picturesque,  234. 

Pindar,  231. 

Pindus,  590. 

Piqued,  224. 

Platsea,  399. 

Plato,  88. 

Plebeian,  388. 

Pleiad,  344. 

Plinth,  88. 

Plutarch,  364. 

Polybius,  364. 

Pope  Joan,  121. 

Postern,  376. 

Posthumous,  277. 

Potential,  85. 

Precedent,  350. 

Pregnant,  86. 

Pretty,  449. 

Prerogative,  292. 

Probing,  79. 

Prometheus,  367. 

Puritans,  280. 

Purple,  95. 

Python,  453. 

Rabbinical,  576. 

Rack,  235. 

Raconteur.  342. 

Raschid,  H.  al,  180. 

Ravish,  82. 

Recognition,  94. 

Redolent,  So. 

Refulgent,  81. 
!  Relic  of  Milton,  579. 
i  Rendezvous,  olio. 


Renunciation,  292. 
Resonant,  79. 
Return,  154. 
Reveille,  170. 
Reversion,  351. 
Rienzi,  292. 
Rood,  501. 
Root,  77,  233. 
Rouse,  493. 
Route,  170. 
Ruble,  91. 
Runic,  551. 
Rural,  84. 
Russell,  Wra.  96. 
Sabean,  592. 
Sable,  143. 
Saco,  170.  Saga,  434. 
Saladin,  563. 
Salamis,  395. 
Salvo,  157. 
Samite,  427. 
Sarmatia,  156. 
Satirist,  372. 
Satyr,  489. 
Savage,  R.,  204. 
Scarce,  77. 
Scarcely,  82. 
Sensorium,  595. 
Seraph,  84. 
Sergeant,  444. 
Serried,  313. 
Sesame,  577. 
Sheen,  313. 
Shenstone,  W.  360. 
Sheridan,  R.  B.,  86. 
Sibyl,  327. 
Simulacrum,  521. 
Sinai,  201. 
Simar,  556. 
Siren,  133. 
Skald,  434. 
Skoal,  436. 
Smith,  Mrs.  C,  478. 
Socrates,  231. 
Solyma,  590. 
Song,  87. 
Sovereign,  510. 
Spenser,  E.,  292. 
Spinet,  326. 
St.  Ambrose,  523. 
Steele,  R.,  204. 
Stridulous,  236. 
St.  Paul's  Ch.,  300. 
Stupendous,  83. 
Sublunary,  300. 
Supernal,  145. 
Sure,  118. 
Swamp,  170.     , 
Swift,  J.,  237. 
Sydney,  A.,  292. 
Syncope,  589. 
Synonym,  577. 
JTalfourd,T.N.,238 
Talisman,  543. 
Tamerlane,  86. 


Tarquin,  584. 

Tartarus,  390. 

Tedded,  97. 

Te  Deum,  169. 

Tempe,  526. 

Temple,  A\  m.,  237. 

Tillotson,  J.,  535. 

Timotheus,  242. 

Tinct,  381,  503. 

Tintinnabulation, 
551. 

Titans,  175. 

Thais,  527. 

Thanatopsis,  129. 

The,  77.    There,  78. 

Therefore,  114. 

Thermopylae,  395. 

Thucydides,  343. 

Tocsin,  307. 

Tragedy,  486. 

Trajan,*  312. 

Transcendent,  205. 

Transmutation,  359. 

Transfigure,  145. 
j  Treason,  186. 
|  Tripod,  510. 

Turbulent,  78. 

Ubiquity,  114. 

Urs,  233. 

Vails,  351. 

Vane,  Sir  II.,  96. 

Vast,  465. 

Venice,  176. 

Venus  de  Medicis, 
226. 

Viking,  315. 

Vilhers,  285. 

Vindication,  136. 

Virgin,  77. 

Vis-a-vis,  122. 

Visionary,  165. 

Vizier,  181. 

Vortices,  200. 

Waller,  E.,  242. 

Warwick,  382. 

Wassail-bout,  435. 

Washington,  275. 

Weird,  77. 

Westminster     Ab- 
bey, 300. 

Wherefore,  93. 

White,  J.  13.,  477. 

Wilberlbrce,  301. 

WTilson,  John,  238. 

Winkelried,  A.,  95. 

Woman,  100. 

Wont,  214,  493. 

Wonted,  476. 

World,  585. 

W'ound,  356. 

Wrath,  154. 

Ximi.xis,  p.,  222. 

Yeoman,  876. 

Yorktown.  17*'>. 

You,  83.    Your,  83. 


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